Bloodforge
by chaosshotgun
Summary: Rising from their biggest defeat at the hands of the Forsworn, the Riders have a new mission: to get new weapons and find a way to match their enemies' strength and face Galbatorix fearlessly. With a werecat's advice to guide them, they set off to claim their true inheritance as the new leaders of the Dragon Riders. A partial retelling of Brisingr.
1. Passing on the Flame of Hope

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Inheritance Cycle.**

**I'm back with a vengenace! I just took a short break before typing all of this in less than three days. Anyway, while this is sort of my version of Brisingr, it's going to run a bit differently. First of all, we might actually be back in Ellesmera sooner than expected. There's still going to be a dwarven coronation, of course. And many other side-missions comprised of different Rider teams to compensate for many of the adventures in Brisingr not taking place in my version... if you have any suggestions about what these mini missions may be, feel free to drop by and tell me!**

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><p><strong>Bloodforge<strong>

_Himeria knelt behind the Forsworn, side by side with Isilude. She kept her head bowed, though at least that prevented her from looking up at the king's cruel face, his jet-black hair, and those unsettling violet eyes. She cast her lot with him, but that didn't mean that she had to like him. It was just that she would have a better chance at survival. Especially now that she wasn't the only precious thing that she had to protect._

_ "Ah, it is good to see you gathered today," Galbatorix said thoughtfully in that high, cold voice of his. "My friends, both old and new, prepared to help me in ushering a new age of prosperity, and the rise of the greatest Riders to bless the land of Alagaesia. We shall put the misguided men and elves in their places, and flush the barbaric dwarves out of the caverns! But first, there is the important matter of the Varden. Brom has managed to protect and have their dragon eggs hatched. And that traitor of yours, Morzan…"_

_ Morzan visibly flinched. "Forgive me, Highness. It will not happen again."_

_ "As you know you should. Now, we have more pressing matters to deal with. I do not wish to kill Riders anymore, now that we have wiped out all that have succumbed to corruption and decadence. These new Riders are young and malleable, like Himeria and Isilude here."_

_ Himeria kept herself from flinching, drawing from Volsalaarum's strength._

_ "I want to see if we could make them come of their own accord. Once the Varden decides to attack us, they will surely be there. I do not know if they managed to hatch the other eggs, but be prepared for any eventuality. Let them challenge you. Show them the power of the gifts I have bestowed upon you. Will must impress our might upon them. They might resist at first. Leave them. If word is true, and they wield stolen blades of our grand order, take them. Let them know that they will be allowed to wield their weapons once I see fit."_

_ Insilbeth cleared her throat. "My Lord, if I may ask… why not take them by force? You know that we are more than capable of doing so."_

_ Enduriel nodded thoughtfully. "She is right. I do not see why we must leave them. Any time not spent with your tutelage might sway them more in favor of the filthy Varden."_

_ "It is not our place to question the Great King's will," hissed Morzan._

_ Galbatorix laughed coldly. "If they do not come to us within a month after their defeat, we shall take them. It is easier to have willing pupils than more… spirited ones." Himeria could not see, but she was sure that he was staring at Isilude, who feigned ignorance. The young man had a faithful king's man for a father, but he seemed more reluctant. If that was the right word._

**Chapter 1: Passing on the Flame of Hope**

Feeling the caressing warmth of the early morning sun, Eragon's eyes flitted open. He was curled up on his bedroll, sore from the battle of the previous day. He turned in early, and it still felt like he lacked sleep. His vague awareness of the minds in the vicinity was merely a sixth sense to him now. He located Saphira's drowsy mind and smiled.

_Good morning,_ he said.

_Good morning, little one. Are you feeling better now?_

Eragon did not respond until he was cleaned up and prepared for the day. He dressed in his favorite elven tunic – a blue one with stitchings of silver and gold leaves. He also donned on a matching cape and grinned. He felt better, but the pain of losing his sword, Kylskada, weighed heavily on his mind. He tried to push it away as he put on the belt of Beloth the Wise. Looking his best would boost the Varden's morale.

_I am feeling better,_ he agreed. _Not my best, but still better. We need weapons._

_ We must all take steps to recover,_ Saphira agreed. Naturally, their first defeat did not sit well with her either.

Eragon stepped out of his tent with a loaf of bread in hand, into a shower of blue as he faced his dragon who waited outside. People passing by murmured quick greetings. "So," he said out loud. "Where to, now?"

_Brom. He has been quite impatient. He passed me by here twice and kept reminding me of your meeting today. Thorn has been bombarded with the same reminders, as was Sardonis. Both males have been most displeased, to put it lightly_

Looking around, Eragon noticed that the other tents were empty. The lack of a dragon's presence was always noticeable. _Oh, so was I the last to wake?_

_ Aye. Your brother and sister have left a while ago. Katrina departed to meet with her mother and her father a little before you arose. Nasuada and Solaris have both been talking to Melikir since dawn – no doubt about the fate of their sister. Faolin has invited Arya and Vanir to break their fast with him._

Eragon nodded. He clambered up Saphira's back and quickly ate his breakfast, feeling the brush of the breeze against his face. Unbidden, the mighty sapphire dragon walked toward Brom's tent, which was situated a small distance away from his pupils, nearer to Melikir's. It was made of pale blue silk trimmed with a deeper blue, red, and black. Thorn and Sardonis were curled up right outside, engaged in a lazy discussion.

_Eragon, Saphira, it is good to see you,_ Thorn said with a dip of his head.

_That is true. It is good to see both of you looking better,_ agreed Sardonis.

_It is good to see you both, too,_ Eragon told them with a smile. He patted Saphira's neck. _I suppose you would be listening to what we will be discussing, anyway._

_ Of course, of course,_ replied Thorn. _Why ever will we not? This also concerns us._

Eragon dismounted and patted Saphira's neck reassuringly. Nodding to the two other dragons, who also gave him encouraging looks, he ducked inside his old teacher's tent. Murtagh, Aesyr, Selena, and Brom were seated around a small table laden with food and cups of steaming tea. Brom grunted upon seeing him. "Take your seat and eat. We have much to discuss."

"About our father?" Eragon asked, taking his place.

Murtagh pushed a plate heaped with bread, cheese, and fruit toward him. "Seems like they won't talk until we're finished eating."

Like he mentioned, no one said anything again until the plates were scoured clean. Then, Brom put them away and regarded the siblings. "Now, we are fit to discuss the matter of your parentage." Eragon noted that he started speaking in the Ancient Language. "I am your father."

Eragon gaped at him, then at Selena who did nothing to contradict. "Is this the truth?"

"I speak the language that binds its users in truth, and I am saying it without twisting it. Therefore, son, believe me."

Murtagh clenched his fists. Luckily, the plates and cups were taken away already, or he may have smashed one or more. "We have lived with you for years. We grew up in Carvahall, and Uncle Garrow mentioned that you have lived there since we were two years old. Why did you not reveal yourself?"

"Do not question your father," Selena snapped. She exchanged uncomfortable glances with Brom, who nodded.

"I believe you know bits and pieces of the story already, but it would be better for you to hear everything from the start." He lit his pipe placidly, ignoring the twins' glares and Aesyr's probing gaze. "When my Saphira hatched for me, I was nearing my eleventh year. I joined the ranks of Riders, of which my elder brother and sister were also members. As was custom, Oromis took me as his junior student, with Morzan as my senior of three years. I looked up to both of them, Morzan most of all. I saw him as a surrogate brother even though he treated me like dirt. I am not proud of it."

Murtagh snickered in spite of himself. "You let yourself be ordered around by someone else? Impossible."

"It is possible," Aesyr contradicted him.

Brom nodded thoughtfully, apparently lost in memories. "That was one of the reasons why it was so easy to hate him when he betrayed us. It nearly drove me into madness when he was the one who murdered Saphira, forced my sister, Ellina, to become his lover, and eventually killed her during a battle to save the dwarves. I swore to myself that I will undo him and avenge my dragon and my sister."

"That sword, Eldsvard," Murtagh said. "That was your sister's?"

"Aye. We managed to retrieve it from her body and give her and her dragon a proper burial before the Forsworn returned to claim her sword. Servvan, the original owner of Kylskada, was my brother. Oromis had his sword when he escaped the Forsworn." Brom smiled bitterly. "Mad with grief over multiple losses, I ignored my master's warnings and went on to form the Varden, which you probably know. I personally murdered three of the Forsworn and caused the deaths of another two."

"I have never met him before his last scheme, eighteen years ago," began Selena, her gray eyes wistful. "It was five years since I left Carvahall, four years since I joined the Varden, two years into my spying mission and a year and a half since I married Morzan. My husband believed that I was perfectly capable. That was why he married me in the first place. He gave me the task to spy on the Varden for him and manage his household while he left to fulfill Galbatorix's will. It was then that I gathered the most information for the Varden, as Morzan's head of household. In exchange, I gave him many false information that he did not even bother to scan for any hint of falsehood."

"If you were stuck in Morzan's fortress, then how did you two meet?" Eragon asked, still doubtful of Brom's revelations.

"It is true, aren't the Forsworn spellcasters too? After all, they're Riders with more experience than the eight of us combined," added Murtagh.

Aesyr voiced out something that Eragon was starting to wonder about. "Don't tell me that you seduced her to get back at Morzan!"

Brom grimaced. "Well, that was my initial intent. I was not technically a part of the Varden anymore at that point, having parted ways with them after my little mission with Jeod. But then, the more I talked to her, the more that we fell in love, and I actually found out that she was from the Varden."

Selena grinned. "It was quite a shock when I actually found out who he was. So in time, I became pregnant… and I managed to slip away under the pretense of returning to the Varden."

"Weren't you afraid that he would find out?"asked Eragon.

"As you may have realized already, the Forsworn are mad and broken. It is their weakness and will be their undoing." Selena's smile turned bitter. "As you should then know, I reached Carvahall and gave birth to you. I left once I have recovered enough. I spent another six months in the castle, until Brom decided to leave for Carvahall to keep an eye on our children. That was when you, Aesyr, were conceived. But I did not know until I was on my way to the Varden during my periodic visits… and since it would be too dangerous for me to loop around and go back to Carvahall, I gave birth to you in the Varden and entrusted you to an old friend."

"But surely you must have shared a bed with Morzan… are you sure that we are not his children?" Murtagh asked. That was a good point.

Brom smiled. "You may want to ask Arya about spells that could easily determine parentage from a few drops of blood. I believe that elves, with their peculiar custom of taking mates instead of marrying, have a lot of parental disputes. Yes, I am your father. Have no doubt. But I hope you do not hate me for this… That is the reason why I kept off the truth until now. I was afraid that I would push you away."

Eragon knew he should have been angry. But he felt nothing but peaceful. His experiences and things he learned from others made him sure that Brom could not reveal himself before without putting all of them in danger. For that, he was grateful.

"Once we end this war, we can finally become a real family. I'll make it happen," he murmured in the ancient language.

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><p>Katrina felt so sore, that she let Luneria carry her around the camp without complaint. Normally, unless it was needed, she still prefered to walk. Dressed in her best, the other soldiers nodded and bowed to her. She accompanied Vanir earlier that day in overseeing the departure of a number of dwarves. Apparently, their king decided to abdicate and pass on the throne, and they needed to return to the Beor Mountains to prepare for the election of the new king.<p>

Luneria shuffled toward the edge of the camp, where the refugees of Carvahall were being shepherded by Garrow and Roran, while Askanir watched lazily. She searched the crowd for familiar faces… There was Horst, leaner than he used to be, shadowed by his sons. Beside him was a heavily pregnant Elaine. She blinked and looked twice at Jeod, the merchant of Teirm, and his wife, Helen, who was also heavily pregnant and looked a great deal happier.

Eragon and Murtagh arrived, pulling Aesyr along with them. Their dragons joined Askanir, looking like gigantic mounds of living gemstones. Katrina jumped off Luneria's back. _Best if you join them for now. We don't want any of you startling them._

Luneria looked at her for a long time, her thoughts unreadable. _I understand. Why they should be terrified of us, I do not know._

_ From what I have heard from Roran earlier today, they had a terrible ordeal in Carvahall, and it invovled two of the Forsworn. They might react poorly if they see dragons all of a sudden._

_ Very well. _Luneria brushed her snout against Katrina's brow lightly before shuffling away.

Katrina joined the assembled Riders, a small distance away from the line of villagers. A while later, Nasuada, Arya, and Vanir joined them, also dressed in their finest. Their cloaks fluttered idly in the lazy breeze. Katrina broke into a smile as Garrow and Roran approached them.

"Since we cannot go home anymore, it seems like home has come to us," she said, a tone of wonder creeping up her voice. Until now, she had not realized just what Garrow achieved.

The other villagers came into view, their faces and bodies altered so much by their hardships. Though they were lean and gaunt, a different kind of strength glinted through their eyes. Horst's family hurried toward them first, awe in their eyes. A flash of recognition passed in the blacksmith's eyes as he half-nodded, half-bowed to the twins, then to Katrina. Then he extended the same courtesy to the other Riders.

"Katrina! Boys! It was amazing enough when we saw Roran looking… different. Is it true? By the lost kings, Riders! And four from our own village, too!"

"Aye, 'tis true," Brom said, limping toward them.

Selena Nightblade trailed behind him, her cheeks red. "Garrow!" she called out, running into her startled brother's arms.

"You have grown more lovely," Elaine said, smiling at Katrina. "It has been a long time."

"Katrina!" Sloan dashed toward her. He enveloped his daughter in a brief hug. "It has been too long. Far too long. You have done me proud."

"You are not mad?" Katrina looked up at her father, who was beaming.

Sloan shook his head. "At first, I thought you were trying to elope… but everything that has gone on in Carvahall has convinced me otherwise. And I saw eight Riders battling the Forsworn yesterday! I hope you taught Kialandi and Formora their lesson."

Katrina made a face. "Far from it. We were outmatched. They were at their full power. But mad. All mad."

The villagers began to surround them, introducing themselves to the other Riders and expressing awe and reverence toward the two elves. Someone approached the party, dressed all in black. A pale silver cloak fluttered behind her. Her coppery hair fell down in waves around her face, and her silver eyes searched the crowd.

"Ismira?" Sloan said in disbelief.

Ismira smiled. "It has been too long, my dear husband. Have you finally come to your senses? Do you remember your duty?"

Sloan made a face. Miraculously though, he did not explode. After a few seconds, he calmed himself and approached Ismira,letting Katrina trail behind. "It has been six years. But aye, my wife, I am here. And I remember my duty."

Ismira turned to Katrina. "And how you have grown, my lovely daughter. Being a Rider suits you." Clearing her throat, she glanced back at Sloan. "Lord Melikir, King Orrin, King Hrothgar, and Lord Faolin request the presence of the people who came from the Dragon Wing."

"We shall be glad to oblige our hosts," Garrow said at the head of the group. "What are you all waiting for? We must not keep our hosts waiting."

Katrina watched him shepherd the group toward the command tent. "He has changed, too."

"That he has," grunted Sloan. "Katrina, we shall have a proper reunion later, once we are less busy."

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><p>Vanir watched the villagers walk away. Humans truly were more interesting than he first thought. He cast his mind out, locating Diamanda. <em>More people to protect,<em> he told her. _We cannot let them down. We have heard of their hardships._

_ You have grown wise._

_ No, I just learned to think as a person should,_ Vanir replied, his lip twitching. _But I need a sword. We all need ones, as a matter of fact. I cannot fight properly with the poleaxe from Oromis unless I am on your back._

"Do you think we should ask Father if he can supply us with new swords?" Aesyr finally said. She did mention once that her foster father, Frederic, was in charge of the Varden's weapons.

Vanir shook his head. "No, I do not think it would be a good idea. Though I do not doubt that your father can help us get new swords, they would not be the kind that we are accustomed to. Since elves create weapons wrought with enchantments, our swords are lighter and thinner than ones made of the same strength and quality by humans and dwarves."

"Besides, it would not feel right," mused Katrina. All the elation she had at seeing her family and friends from her village seemed to have drained out. "We are Riders. Don't we need a proper Rider's sword as part of our inheritance?"

Eragon snapped his fingers –a sharp, clear sound. "Remember what Solembum said, all the way back in Teirm? 'Time will come and a blacksmith shall be in need of her materials. Look under the roots of the Menoa Tree, where more than weapons will be found. When all seems lost and your power feels insufficient, visit the Rock of Kuthian. Speak your name there, and the Vault of Souls will open for you.' That might solve both our problems – give us new weapons, and give us enough power to match the Forsworn and maybe even Galbatorix himself…"

Nasuada crossed her arms. "A good idea, yes, but still quite a challenge. We do not even know where the Rock of Kuthian is, much less how to find this Vault of Souls."

Vanir exchanged glances with Arya. "The Menoa Tree might be… interesting," he told her.

"There are no documents or records indicating that there is something hidden beneath it," she countered. "I've asked Faolin before."

"We also need to complete as much of our training as we can," Murtagh said worriedly. "Maybe we could ask for Melikir's permission."

"He might let you. You haven't sworn fealty to him." Roran scowled. "He might demand Nasuada and me to stay."

"He must understand. We have our duty to the Varden, but we also have duties as Riders." Nasuada shook her head and smiled. "I will convince him to let us go to Ellesmera."

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><p><strong>Sorry for the kinda boring first chapter! We'll be jumping into action soon, though things might be a bit slow-going at first.<strong>

**Thank you so much for sticking with me up to this point! Will be talking more soon!**

**Read and review as always, you guys!**


	2. An Exodus

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything remotely familiar here.**

**I'm back! **

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: An Exodus<strong>

A flurry of activity broke the ominous silence of the Burning Plains. The men of the Varden were preparing the break camp, intent on carrying their campaign northward, slowly but surely into the heart of the Empire. The army was to veer a little to the east though, toward Feinster, as Melikir had plans of capturing a major port city and use it as a temporary base of operations. Murtagh was helping some of the villagers in loading the wagons assigned to them, ignoring their protests with his usual cheeky smile.

"But you are a Rider," argued Mandel. "Surely you have more important things to do than help us here."

Murtagh grunted as he tied some bundles of blankets on Thorn's saddle. "This is a very important task," he told them, trying his best to act grave and elf-like. "We don't want you to feel apart from the Varden. Besides, I've been away from home far too long."

"You're not the only one," Eragon said, joining the group. He was running a hand through his touseled hair. He stared at his inquiring brother. "What? Saphira licked me."

Murtagh laughed. "Oh, my dear brother. Seriously?"

Eragon shot him a glare. It was like the old times. "Enough of that!"

"So what exactly are you doing here? Last I saw you, you were helping Elain and Helen settle down in their wagons."

"Well, yes. But Melikir wanted to talk to us."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. Wasn't Melikir supposed to be busy overlooking their departure? He exchanged glances with Thorn. _Could this be about our plans of leaving for Ellesmera?_

_ Maybe, _offered Thorn. _And probably a new task that Melikir wants you to work on. _The mighty ruby dragon yawned and stretched his wings, startling some of the watching villagers. _I'll carry these blankets for them, do not fear. Make sure to let me hear everything, understand?_

_ I would never hide anything from you,_ promised Murtagh. He grinned and bounded after Eragon.

Together, the brothers wound their way through half-collapsed tents and bundled luggages. Above them soared Solaris and Luneria, apparently off on a hunt. A cluster of warriors bowed before the twin Riders. "Shadeslayers," they murmured.

Murtagh nodded to them and ducked just in time as a group of men carrying wooden poles passed by. He eventually spotted Melikir at the edgeof the camp, talking quietly with Faolin and Brom, balancing a pile of scrolls. The other Riders were already assembled there, with Arya rubbing her forehead thoughtfully.

Behind the group was the vast empty plains where the road branched out – onward to the north and to Ellesmera, or veering to the east and to Feinster. At that fleeting moment, he felt so small and insignificant against the vastness of the world before him. Then, he caught Nasuada's gaze and it felt like a brilliant ray of sunlight flooded into his mind – bright, warm, and happy. He smiled.

_You are looking like a fool,_ Roran said, breaking him out of his thoughts.

With a jolt, he realized that everyone was staring at him. Brom – blast it, his father was staring at him with an amused and knowing look. He looked away and focused on Melikir, who was grinning. Sorrow still smoldered behind his eyes, though. "Ah, it is good to see you all assembled here," he said in his slow, thoughtful voice. "I have discussed recent events with Brom. It seems like it truly is imperative for all of you to return to Ellesmera and complete as much of your training as you can. It would be a good idea for you to go back one or two at a time, but… it would probably be better to send you all together and see you at your strongest."

Brom raised a finger before anyone could react. "Ah, but not now. Our first hurdle has just finished. We have so many more things to accomplish, and some of these are too important to set aside. We have work to do before you depart."

Murtagh nodded. "Well, that sounds like fair. But we must accomplish everything swiftly. The Forsworn might attack you while we are away."

Melikir looked bothered. "We must risk it, I believe."

"I do not think that this is the only reason why you called us here," Eragon pointed out.

Nasuada nodded thoughtfully. "You're giving us our assignments, right?"

"You got me." Melikir grinned. "Right. You shall be starting tomorrow. Roran, Nasuada, I want you to escort Brom to his estate in Surda tomorrow to retrieve some important books and scrolls which Jeod Longshanks needs. I am sure he will explain it better than I will once you meet him. Eragon, Murtagh, you will be taking King Hrothgar and Orik to Farthen Dur, so that they can begin the preparations for their elections. Katrina, Aesyr, I want you to stay here to assist Du Vrangr Gata in regrouping and maintaining the health of the sick and injured. Vanir, I want you to stay here and get acquainted with the Varden and everyone of note. Lastly, Arya, I want you to coordinate with Faolin. You will be my point of contact with Queen Islanzadi, who is about to march into battle up north."

Murtagh didn't miss the worry in Melikir's voice. He was barely older than the Riders, and he already had so much responsibility in his hands. At least the Riders had each other. He was alone. Murtagh felt sorry for him. How different could it have been if he was also chosen by a dragon?

After a bit more of small talk, the Riders disperesed in order to prepare for their tasks ahead. Murtagh was already halfway to the area at the back of the camp where the villagers were organizing themselves when Eragon and Roran approached him with identical grins on their faces. "Murtagh," Eragon said, obviously barely able to contain his excitement. "We can now repay Horst and Jeod for their kindness to us."

"What do you have in mind?" muttered Murtagh.

Roran smiled and held out his hand, revealing a pair of small gold orbs, around the size of large hazelnuts. "This was Katrina's idea. It took quite a lot out of her though, so I guess mining them is still easier."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Murtagh asked. "Let's look for Horst first."

They found the blacksmith and his family at the back of the camp. Elain nodded to them with a warm smile. Horst was discussing quietly with his sons, and all three of them looked up when the Riders approached, straightening and preening unconsciously.

"Come on, Horst. There is no need for you to do that," Eragon said with a grin.

Albreich crossed his arms, matching his childhood friend's grin. "You look disappointed, oh mighty Rider."

"You know Eragon," Roran countered. "He's probably expecting someone from the village to cause an uproar in the grand tradition of merry old Carvahall."

Horst laughed. "Aren't you lads proof of that?" He shook his head. "Never mind that. The Varden is quite excited over the fact that we are smiths. Apparently you folks need more of us. They gave us everything we need. I left most of my tools back at Carvahall. Now we have work to keep us occupied for the rest of our lives! I will try to convince them to let me work closer to our tent once we settle again. You know, because of Elain's condition."

Baldor nodded thoughtfully. He was always more quiet than his expressive brother. "I hope you could have a look at her, ease her discomfort. I mean…"

"Of course we would," Murtagh told him. He nodded to Eragon, who deftly clambered up the wagon and began to talk quietly to Elain. "From what we have heard, we owe you so much. You have housed Uncle Garrow and supported him throughout your journey."

Roran nodded. "We cannot thank you enough." He handed one of the pearly gold orbs to the smith. "Here, take this. It's not much, and I know that you won't earn a lot here, but I hope this helps."

Horst eyed the piece of gold with awe. "Son, I can't take this. It is too valuable. Besides, I just did what I had to."

"It is nothing, compared to what you have done for us. Please, take it."

Horst seemed to consider before pocketing the gift. "Thank you."

"It is we who must thank you," countered Eragon, leaping down from the wagon. "I did my best to ease Elain's discomfort. I am no healer, but I know enough."

* * *

><p>Seeing his fellow Riders reuniting with friends and family members made Vanir feel lonely. He did not have such close attachments to anyone else in the Varden. Though he did assist in the preparations to break camp, he felt truly and utterly alone in the crowd of people.<p>

As he was less familiar than Arya and Faolin, the humans and even the dwarves tended to veer away from him. Maybe it was also because the Queen's children acted less like elves than he did. Maybe that was his flaw. He was too much of an elf to relate to anyone outside of Du Weldenvarden. Riders often acted as ambassadors, bridges between the races. He had to improve his understanding of humans and dwarves if he was to be effective.

_You think too much. That's what it is,_ noted Diamanda. A flash of her thoughts revealed that the elder dragons were teaching her some aerial combat tactics.

_I am merely trying to learn._

_To learn is to experience, to feel._

Vanir rolled his eyes. Sometimes, reasoning to a dragon was odd. He was trying to experience and feel, wasn't he?

He noticed a tall, slim man scrambling around for fallen scrolls and books. He rushed over to help, deftly picking up a small pile of thin scrolls. The man nodded his thanks, and his pale eyes widened upon realizing who Vanir was. "Argetlam! Forgive me, I was so preoccupied and in a rush…"

"It is not a problem." Vanir peered at the man, noting the scar down his temple. He must have been a fighter when he was younger. "You came with the people from the Dragon Wing, did you not?"

The man nodded. "Jeod Longshanks at your service, Rider."

"I am Vanir. I would really appreciate it if you call me by my name." He hefted the scrolls in his arms. "Let me carry these for you. No man should be carrying that much!"

Jeod grinned. "Thank you. Vanir, we will not be leaving until after lunchtime. Would you mind eating with me and my wife? I have heard that you are quite new here. I have also invited the other new Rider. Her name is Aesyr, I believe."

Vanir stopped dead in his tracks. If he was human, he would have dropped the scrolls he was carrying for Jeod. He did not understand why merely hearing the name of that girl made him feel unusually warm. "That would be appreciated," he said, doing his best to sound like nothing happened. Shaking his head, he followed Jeod deeper into the camp.

They found themselves at the fringe of the space provided to the people from the Dragon Wing. A table and some seats were hastily assembled under the shadow of a small wagon. A fair-haired, heavily pregnant woman was pouring tea for a timid-looking Aesyr. She smiled at Jeod and watched Vanir curiously.

"Rider Vanir, my wife, Helen. Helen, this young Rider here insisted on assisting me with my scrolls," explained Jeod. He set said scrolls down on the wagon and sat down across the table from Aesyr. "Vanir, please do sit down."

Feeling not at all uncomfortable, Vanir settled down beside Aesyr. Helen set down a plate of bread and cheese before him, and a cup of steaming hot tea. "I am afraid that we do not have much."

"Do not fear," Vanir told her. "All is well."

Helen sat down beside Jeod with her own plate and mug. They quietly ate for a while. Once everything was cleared, Jeod regarded the two young Riders with interest. "I have met your companions. Those six who are senior to you," he explained. "Forgive me, I was merely curious to meet the two of you, know you more. You are heavily burdened for ones so young."

"I grew up among the Varden," explained Aesyr. "I have heard stories about you, sir, but you left Farthen Dur before I was born."

"I am from Ellesmera. My family is renowned there, but I am the only child born in the past century," explained Vanir. "Which may also be why I was too sheltered."

_Cast aside your past,_ Diamanda whispered. _You and I, we will forge a new future together._

* * *

><p>Sunrise. No matter how long Eragon would live, there was something comforting about watching the sun begin its golden dance across the sky. It sang of hope and a promise of better things to come.<p>

He did not have much sleep the previous night. The Varden reached their destination, a small flat area of land between the Burning Plains and Feinster, later than planned. It didn't matter, though. Eragon was sure that there would be no proper resting until Galbatorix was defeated. He had other responsibilities to fulfill for now.

Sitting atop Saphira, he watched the golden light brighten up the desolate land before him. They were heading for Farthen Dur soon. He wondered if the Varden would still be in one piece when they returned.

_Do not think dark thoughts,_ Saphira chided him. _Today, we fly together._

_ Not exactly alone, though,_ Eragon replied, gesturing to Orik's pack which was loaded on the sapphire dragon's saddle.

_Does it matter for now? At least we taste the skies together._ Saphira stood up as Thorn approached, Murtagh on his back.

The red dragon landed. _You are too early._

_ Nothing wrong with that,_ Eragon replied with a grin.

Murtagh yawned. "We're off to another adventure, but I feel oddly naked without my sword. I know we have the weapons that Master Oromis gave us but still… they feel different."

"I know what you mean," Eragon admitted. He sighed. "The sooner we're in Ellesmera, the better I'd feel. Convincing Rhunon to make new swords for us is another matter, though."

"We'll work on it," Murtagh muttered.

The four of them fell into companionable silence, watching the sun creeping up slowly before them. Eventually, two small figures could be seen from the camp, striding out toward them. Orik and King Hrothgar were ready to go home.

"Good morning," Orik greeted the twins cheerfully. It was obvious that something weighed heavily upon him, though.

"Good morning to you, Orik, King Hrothgar," the twins replied. The dragons echoed their greetings.

Orik clambered up Saphira's back, joining Eragon. Murtagh aided Hrothgar in mounting Thorn. _Are you ready? _The sapphire dragon stretched her wings in excitement.

_Ready when you are,_ replied Eragon.

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><p><strong>I seriously wanted an action-packed chapter, but I decided against it. I want to do more character development and easing into the story.<strong>

**The enthusiasm you guys let me experience is seriously overwhelming. You're seriously amazing. Virtual cookies for everyone!**

**And yeah, someone's been inspired by other fics.**

**Friendship between Jeod and Vanir was a theme that I've been playing on for some time now...**

**Read and review, as always!**


	3. From the Ground Up

**Disclaimer: Does it look like I own anything here but my account?**

**Hi guys! I'm back! I wanted to upload this earlier, but Typhoon Hagupit/Ruby hit us and I had no Internet connection for anything longer than a few minutes.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: From the Ground Up<strong>

Away from the Burning Plains, the Varden's camp seemed a brighter, better place. While more dwarves were still moving out toward the Beor Mountains, enough still stayed to make sure that the Varden was not lacking in manpower. He was on his way to meet with Jeod, who turned out to be the young scholar who discovered the hidden cache of dragon eggs years ago. Their lunch the previous day turned into an offer to keep each other company and learn about each other's races. Jeod was eternally curious, interested in gathering more information about anything and everything in the world. Vanir needed to know more about humans.

He kept his back straight, nodding awkwardly to the greetings of the few humans and dwarves who went near him. He did not know how to respond. Above him, Diamanda's pearly scales gleamed as she circled the camp.

_Therein lies the greatest of your problems,_ the white dragon scolded. _You think to much. You must feel and experience. Sometimes, our hearts are better judges than our minds._

_ Are you teaching me how it truly is to be an elf now?_ Vanir felt a slight smile touch his lips.

_Of course not. I am teaching you how to be a Rider. You are not human, nor an elf._ Diamanda's amusement seeped through their link, like liquid tickling his mind. _Your order has sworn to be of all races but not one of them. So you must learn not how to truly be an elf, but a great Rider._

_ Very well then, partner of my heart and mind. Show me the way to become what you want me to be._

He eventually found himself standing in front of Jeod's tent, which was right in the middle of the space taken up by the passengers of the Dragon Wing. Inside, the tall man was poring over a pile of scrolls and books. He looked up briefly as he noticed the elf watching him. "Vanir, do come in," he said pleasantly. "Forgive me, I am quite preoccupied at the moment. I've managed to salvage most of my valuable books and scrolls. We're searching for weaknesses in cities throughout the Empire, something that we can use to our advantage."

Vanir grabbed an unoccupied stool and sat down, carefully peering at some of the book. He recognized some of them as translated elven texts. "So you're looking everywhere, then? These don't look like textbooks."

"I'm willing to look everywhere I can. Most of these cities stood for hundreds of years, some far before humans arrived in Alagaesia. It is not really likely that I'd find anything, but we need to try." Jeod smiled. "These cities are so old, though, that it's impossible for them not to have hidden passageways. The problem is that they might have not survived into writing, and if they did, we might not have them."

Vanir carefully pulled a thick, dusty tome to him and frowned. "I believe you could use some help. There's too much to look for, and so little time."

With a sigh, Jeod peered at a scroll before pushing it away in favor of a slim book bound in leather. "I'd love to, but no one else has the knowledge or the time that I have." He shook his head and began leafing through the thick pages of his book.

"It's like building a house, I presume. Or even growing some plants. You have to work from the ground up, and an extra hand always helps." Vanir began to read a translated dwarf epic. This could also help him learn about different races. "I'm supposed to get acquainted with the Varden, but I still have plenty of time on my hands. I could help you anytime that I'm free."

Jeod's pale eyes widened. He rapidly shook his head. "Rider, I would not ask that of you! I would never dream of subjecting you to mundane tasks. I know you have many burdens on your shoulder!"

"But you are one of our people too. And your task is important. Too important. I am not being subjected to a mundane task. I am helping a friend, and I am learning about humans and dwarves."

The scholar bowed quickly. "Thank you, Rider. I shall be in your debt."

"No. It is I who owed you, for you are teaching me far more than what you think." Vanir smiled and immersed himself in the tome. He might not find something, but he would still learn. "Visiting the Beor Mountains would have been interesting, though. I wish I could have visited the dwarves' homeland."

"I assume you would, once the new dwarven king is crowned."

A moment of companionable silence passed. Vanir learned more about the first dwarven king, Korgan, and his hammer, Volund. If this was still the same hammer wielded by King Hrothgar and his pending successor, then it truly is quite interesting to note that Korgan taught Rhunon about smithing.

Jeod looked up from his book. "By the way, to let the people of Carvahall follow custom, and to cheer up our soldiers, Melikir is letting us celebrate Midsummer Night next week. It would really mean a lot to us if you and your friends would join."

Vanir smiled. "I would appreciate that. I don't think they would welcome me, though. I am not from their village."

"Oh, you haven't met them yet. Good people. Stubborn and headstrong, but good. You'll like them."

"If they're a lot like they Riders they've come up with, then they are interesting folk."

"Yes, I suppose they are," agreed Jeod. He turned a few pages idly. "Admittedly, humans are ephemeral beings, unlike elves, so you might find us less interesting."

"On the contrary, you are more interesting than my people. That is why being asked to stay here is also working out well for me."

* * *

><p>The sky was an endless sea of clouds and flashes of bright sunlight. Nasuada watched Solaris weave through the air like a massive, jewel-bright bird, her shifting scales as bright as a miniature sun. Ahead was Askanir, the massive, regal dragon carrying Roran and Brom. Together, the two dragons were making their way to Surda.<p>

Nasuada leaned back against her sturdy pack, eyes half-closed and savoring the warmth. _We should do this more once the war is over,_ she mused. _Just the two of us._

_ Of course. _Solaris snapped at a passing hawk, which squawked and veered away. _Though we are learning about what it is to be dragon and Rider, we are not experiencing all of it. Maybe once everything is over we could travel Alagaesia, see the cities._

_ But we must also finish our training and in turn, train the next Riders._ Nasuada flicked away a stray lock of hair. _But we should also travel. Traveling is good._

Nasuada smiled. _Maybe we could document what we will learn, as reference for future Riders._

As day segued into night, they camped out in the lonely Surdan plains. The cool summer breeze ruffled Nasuada's hair as she watched Brom work on their dinner. Their former mentor eyed them with amusement. "I hope your stay in Ellesmera hasn't made you averse to meat," he said, dropping down dried chunks of beef into the cooking pot, followed by bits of vegetables and some salt. "We have about half a day's more of traveling ahead before we reach my Surdan base."

"What exactly are we going to do there?" Roran asked. He poked the fire with a long stick, his eyes seemingly alight with embers of their own. In the semi-darkness, he looked like a king. It suited him well. There were old tales that only those who had the blood of kings had violet eyes, and apparently Palancar Valley was where the first king of Alagaesia and his supporters were exiled in.

Brom regarded the two Riders with those ancient eyes of his. He wasn't as ancient as an elf, but he seemed to carry an aura of experience and knowledge that even Oromis and his daughters lacked. He uttered a few quick spells that protected them from potential eavesdroppers. "Before I left for my last mission for the Varden, I left behind all of my valuable books and scrolls in the house I owned in Surda, protected by magic."

_Is it important for us to retrieve them now?_ Solaris asked.

"Why, yes. Right now, Jeod is hard at work in his research. We hope to find secret passageways into the major cities of the Empire, maybe also find other weaknesses we could breach."

"Well, that sounds reasonable enough," Nasuada said. "But we're pressed for time. Will Jeod find the information we seek before we start the next step of the campaign?"

Roran nodded, taking his eyes off the fire. "She's right. We're pressed for time."

Brom lit his pipe with a wave of his bony hand. "Melikir is trying to slow down our march to Feinster, if you haven't noticed. And I'm positive that Jeod will find something, even without these documents that I will be retrieving."

_I hope for everyone's sake that you are right,_ mused Askanir, blowing a puff of smoke through his nostrils. _We will need all of the advantage we could get._

Solaris grunted. _That we do._

By the time that they were about to go to sleep and Roran decided to take first watch, Nasuada couldn't help but looking to the east. To the Beor Mountains. Murtagh would be there. She felt a quiet longing within her when she remembered the way he smiled.

"Pining for someone?" Brom asked.

Nasuada gave a little start as she was unloading some blankets from Solaris' saddle. She felt her dragon's amusement. _For one with the training you've been through, and the senses of an elf, you should not be so easily startled,_ she scolded.

"Sorry," the Rider said, both to her dragon and to her mentor. As she should have, she opened her mind to her surroundings. "I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings."

Brom raised an eyebrow. "That is not like the Nasuada I taught," he noted. Apparently sensing Solaris' increasing amusement, nodded toward the dragon. "So am I correct? Are you pining for someone?"

Nasuada scowled. "Of course not."

"I have seen the way that my son looks at you."

"Your son?"

"So you mean none of them told you yet? I thought I had it quite clear that it was not a secret anymore. The twins and their younger sister are my children," Brom murmured. "I have seen how Murtagh looks at you, and how you look at him in return."

Nasuada felt herself turning red, and hoped that the darkness hid it. "It does not matter if I pine for him, then?"

Brom smiled. "I am not complaining."

* * *

><p>Arya sat atop Firnen, the young dragon circling their camp. Darkness had fallen, and most people were beginning to settle down for the night. Sure that everything was peaceful, Arya opted not to turn in early like the other Riders left behind with the Varden. She wanted to spend some time with her dragon.<p>

_Finding time just to be with each other is getting more and more difficult,_Firnen complained.

Arya nodded sadly. _True. Once this war is over, I hope that you and I could ride the skies for days on end without anyone and anything coming between us._

_ How are you faring? So many things have happened since we returned._

_ I'm well enough to do what is needed. But we do need to complete our training. I hope our masters could help us fight fairly against the Forsworn._

_ I do not think there is anything like fair in life, little pointy-ears,_ noted Firnen. He tilted downward, flying lower and lower. Their short flight was about to end, it seemed. The emerald dragon was hungry. _If life was fair, then there would be no hunter and prey. No kings and civilans. No different races._

_ A lot of things will be destroyed in this war. I hope we could help everyone rebuild not just their homes, but their lives._

_ It will be difficult. But I think it can be done._

Firnen landed at the edge of the camp, joining Luneria, Diamanda, and Sardonis who are all eager to go hunting. Luneria turned toward Arya. _You looked troubled. If you need a fellow two-legs to talk, I believe that Katrina is not busy anymore._

Arya smiled. She loved the way that all the dragons accept the Riders as part of their little family. "Thank you."

She found Vanir heading toward their tent. The younger elf seemed deep in thought. He looked up, regarding his senior with those charcoal-hued eyes that looked so lost. He slowed down to let Arya catch up – something that he wouldn't have done before in Ellesmera. "Arya Drottningu," he murmured.

"Vanir-finiarel," Arya responded in kind. "Something is bothering you."

The younger Rider regarded her with that odd look in his face. "If we fight, getting innocents involved is inevitable. How will we stand it? Their blood will be on our hands."

Arya frowned. She realized that it was true. Some men would have been forced into conscription, while others were forced to swear oaths. "I don't know, Vanir. I don't know how we will be able to live with it. But we must endure. Many more will suffer and die if we let Galbatorix and his Forsworn live."

"I am afraid of what we might become."

"We have each other," Arya told her companion firmly. "We will always remind each other of who and what we are."

That seemed to quiet the younger elf's fears. Vanir nodded. "Thank you, Arya."

Arya smiled. "You are most welcome."

* * *

><p>Though Eragon had grown to love Ellesmera and its more natural beauty, the wonders of Tronjheim will never cease to amaze him. The glittering jewels of the gate greeted the Riders and their dwarf companions after three hard days of journeying without stopping, simply sleeping on the dragons' saddles, as Hrothgar requested.<p>

Now, they stood at the entrance where their journey to save the Empire began. Their journey as Riders may have started in Carvahall, but they have not accepted their true legacy until they have stepped into these halls. A sudden feeling of longing and nostalgia enveloped Eragon, making it hard to breathe.

"Ah, the mighty Tronjheim, eternally embraced by our father," Hrothgar said in that deep, wise voice of his. "Of the fourty-two kings who have ever ruled the dwarves, only the first and the greatest of them all decided to abdicate his throne. Not many would be pleased by my decision, but as my sons, I wish to tell you the truth. Change is happening in Alagaesia. A new age is about to dawn among the three races. My people have always believed that wisdom comes with age, but I believe that experience and knowledge brings forth wisdom better. Not all who have lived as I hold as much wisdom, and many younger men are wiser than I. I believe that the younger grimsborithn, which now includes Orik as I have abdicated, will do our race better in ushering in a new age."

"But you have done a wonderful job too," Eragon said. He would never forget the king's kindness, supporting the Riders and even adopting the twins as Orik's younger brothers. "You have been a great king."

Hrothgar stared at him with those granite eyes of his, "Thank you for your kind words. I may have done a great job, but I am too set in stone to lead the dwarves into a new age. We need someone who was born and raised after the Fall of the Riders, one who knows how to keep our race strong once this war ends."

Murtagh bowed his head. "I do not care about what Melikir thinks. We will support whatever choice our clan will make."

"It is all we could do to repay you for everything you have done for us," added Eragon.

The dwarven king smiled. "It is all I could ever ask from you."

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><p><strong>I just had to do another quiet chapter. Next would be the Midsummer's Night celebration, and a Rider pair will get to kiss! Finally. So who do you think it is?<strong>

**Though I look pop/punk/alternative rock the most, I am currently crazy for Sleeping at Last, and I actually used one of their song titles for this chapter's title...**

**Read and review, as always!**


	4. Where Armor Ends and Skin Begins

**Disclaimer: See anything you like? Not mine.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Where Armor Ends and Skin Begins<strong>

Aesyr stepped out of the tent owned by the Daughters of the Serpent, head throbbing after another day of learning sorcery. So far, she hadn't accomplished anything but bring forth tears of frustration to her eyes when she failed to connect to the spirits that she was finally learning to sense. Though her teachers assured her that it usually took days, she was still frustrated. She needed to have a skill that could help the other Riders.

Around her, preparations were underway for the celebrations that night. The smell of cooking food made her realize how hungry she was. Carvahall's few children were running around, all dressed in their best. Some of the adults were putting up decorations and assembling tables and chairs on a meadow a little away from the camp. Bright pennants hung from the wooden poles that held the night lamps. A massive pile of wood sat in the middle, waiting for the hour that the bonfire would be lit.

"Aesyr!" a familiar voice called out. Katrina marched toward her, her wavy copper hair rippling in the wind. The lovely elder Rider smiled. "It is not quite time yet. You still have time to change into your best clothing. I believe Niduen has made sure that we had proper clothes to wear for the feast."

"Seems like she has good foresight," noted Aesyr.

"Well, yes. Though if you ask me, all the clothes she weaves are amazing."

Outside the Riders' tents, Aesyr found Arya braiding Nasuada's hair while Solaris and Firnen looked on. She nodded to them and headed for Sardonis, who was curled up right outside his partner's tent. _How are you today, my friend? _She still found the sensation of someone else sharing her thoughts odd, but she was getting used to it.

Sardonis opened one stormy eye. _I am well. You look more exhausted than I could ever feel._

Aesyr smiled. _Who knew that sorcery is difficult? Look, it seems like I need to change into better garb. Please watch out for anyone who may try to get in._

_ Like I don't always do that. Very well. Go on._

She entered the blissful semidarkness of her tent, newly-learned spells keeping it cool. She headed for one corner, where her sleeping bag and three traveling chests were lined up. She opened the left-most chest, rummaging around for clothing that Niduen had marked as one for special occasions. So many black clothes with a few white ones… Why was the elf so bent on color-coding the Riders? With a smile, Aesyr pulled out a black cloak adorned with embroidery of all colors, taking the shapes of dragons in flight. Beneath was a lovely white coat decorated with stitches.

_I do not really know why you two-legs care so much about what you wear. We dragon are content with the beauty we naturally possess,_ noted Sardonis.

_Well, we do not have hides that glitter like gems. That's for sure._ Aesyr changed quickly into her clothing of choice, and ran a hand through her curly hair. That was good enough for her. Her dark breeches were good enough, and her socks only lightly stained, so she had no need to change those. The black diamonds on the belt of Farncrist the Crafty glittered. She missed feeling her sword's weight against her hip. _I need a sword._

_ You still have one,_ muttered Sardonis.

Aesyr nodded at the other sword hanging from her belt – a blade barely longer than a dagger, mainly used for quickly parrying strikes. She received it from the eldest Riders residing in Ellesmera, but it wasn't really much of a weapon. Well, it was better to at least have something to defend herself with in case of battles while the Riders searched for swords.

She stepped out of the tent, and right into a whirlwind of activity. The other Riders – all in their best clothing – were gathered outside their tents, while people were running away from where the festivities were to take place, and toward the northern edge of the camp. "What's happening?" she cried out, feeling irrational fear bubbling inside her.

"People are approaching from the north," Roran told her nervously. "It seems like the elven spellcasters that Queen Islanzadi promised us are here."

"Well, it could be a trap too," admitted Arya. "We will still need to check."

The Riders mounted their dragons. Aesyr exchanged looks with Sardonis, and he launched himself into the air, following the other dragons. The wind whipped her face as they headed for the northern edge of the camp, where people were already gathering. The flight ended too soon and the dragons landed right behind the last row of tents, startling some camp followers headed toward the gathering.

Melikir stood at the head of the group, Angela, Faolin, Brom, and surprisingly, Selena, standing right behind her. Around them were the six black-clad warriors that were dubbed the Nighthawks – a pair each of humans, dwarves, and Urgals. A little to the back were Nar Garzhvog and a pair of Kull, Orrin and his bodyguards, and a cluster of dwarves led by Narheim, their ambassador.

The Varden made way for the Riders. The dragons loomed before them, ready to leap into action should anything go wrong. Melikir nodded as he saw them. Nearby, Faolin looked as tense as a drawn bowstring. "They come," he said in a clipped tone.

Twelve tall, lean figures emerged from a cluster of juniper trees, faces shadowed by the setting sun. They ran in unison, raising no dust. They were running lightly and so fast, Aesyr was sure she would have trouble keeping up with them even after the transformation.

Some of the people behind them cried out in awe and surprise. No one moved or talked until the elves were halfway to the camp. Faolin stepped beside Melikir, looking grim. "You do know that this could be a trap – that Galbatorix could disguise some of his men, even the Forsworn as elves?"

Melikir's golden eyes widened a fraction before nodding. "With the feats I have heard that magic users could achieve, I would not be surprised. If you don't mind, I would like you to test them."

Faolin nodded. "Very well."

The elves were close enough now for their leader to be discernible, apparently soot-black from head to toe. Aesyr remembered some of the odd elves who changed themselves with magic, revealing themselves during the Blood-Oath Celebration, and wondered whether he was one of those. He wore only a loincloth, ad a braided fabric belt with an attached pouch. Closer, he was actually covered in midnight-blue fur in differing thickness. Even his ears had furry tufts, and his hair was raven-black.

As he approached, Aesyr sniffed, noticing an odd, musky odor. How manly. She wanted to crawl nearer, but it would have ruined the Riders' fearsome reputation.

"I know him," Vanir said with a frown. "Blodhgarm. Son of Ildrid the Beautiful. He lives in Nadindel, but he visits Ellesmera every now and then. All female elves seem to find him and his odd scent attractive."

"I know how they feel," Aesyr muttered, earning a rare smile from the elf.

The other elves – thank whatever gods existed – were of the more regular type, with ageless faces, long, flowing hair, and nature-themed tunics. As one, they stood before the leaders of the rebellion and raised two fingers to their lips. Then, they bowed with their right hand twisted against their chest. Blodhgarm regarded Melikir first, then turned to the others, a reverent tilt of his head showing that he noticed Brom and the Riders.

"Greetings and salutations," he said, turning to Melikir once more. His voice was like the velvety purr of a cat, with the musical, lilting accent of his race's. "Melikir, son of Ajihad, I am Blodhgarm, son of Ildrid the Beautiful. Atra esterni ono thelduin."

"Atra du evarinya ono varda," Melikir stammered. Apparently, he was taking lessons on elven culture.

Blodhgarm smiled, revealing sharp, predatory teeth. He proceeded to introduce the other elves, and Melikir did the same with the other people around him. Aesyr recognized some of them – Randarion, Aviana, Mindeth, and Elmyra. Niduen was standing at the very back of the group, as if trying her best not to catch attention.

"It is good to see you all well." The furry elf beamed wider. "We bring glad tidings from Queen Islanzadi. Our forces have finally been fully marshalled, and the march to Ceunon began on the day we departed for the Varden… though it appears that you are also well-informed, thanks to Faolin-elda and Arya-finerya."

"Yes, the siblings have been most helpful,"agreed Melikir. "That doesn't mean that hearing these tidings again diminishes their importance."

Aesyr filtered out the rest of the pleasantries. She felt Sardonis' thoughts pressing against hers. _What do you think of them?_

_ Those sparring friends of yours and Niduen I know. I will be reserving my thoughts on the others for now. Especially that Blodhgarm. He is a curiosity._

* * *

><p>After making sure that the elves felt at home, the Midsummer Night's celebration was finally in full swing. Song and dance lit up the night, as the bonfire burned on. Some of Blodhgarm's spellcasters even lent their voices, flutes, and harps to the music. Food and drink flowed freely as friends both old and new chatted.<p>

Eragon made his way through the crowd, stuffed full with the assortment of food laid out before him earlier. Most men of the Varden and Surda joined the villagers, and even a number of dwarves. Wisely though, the Urgals declined the offer to join in the festivities, though a pair of them were there as part of Melikir's Nighthawks.

With the beautiful music in the background, he watched his father tell a story to a transfixed audience, like he always did back in Carvahall. Though he may have been out of practice, he kept everyone's attention on him. Meanwhile, his mother was watching a Aviana and Mindeth amaze the crowd with their swordplay. He passed by Murtagh and Nasuada, who were talking softly under the light of a flameless lantern, Roran and Katrina seated by the bonfire, and Aesyr and Vanir, who were discussing something seriously with Jeod.

He found Arya seated at the edge of one table, a tankard in hand. She looked up as he approached. "Shadeslayer," she said teasingly.

Eragon found it difficult to speak at first. He still couldn't understand how the starry night sky could enhance the elf's beauty. "Arya," he finally managed to choke out. "There's no need for you to call me that."

"I know." Arya grinned, setting down her tankard, which smelled of berries and spiced wine. "So why are you here?"

With a girl's lilting voice, the a very familiar song wove through the air, the familiar melody turned hauntingly beautiful with the help of the elves' instruments. All around them, pairs began to form a circle and dance.

"Will you dance with me?" Eragon asked.

Arya raised an eyebrow. "I don't dance."

"I don't either. You know, boys under the age of sixteen cannot really join into festivities. Might as well try it out with someone I do like." He held out his shaking hand. He could sense Saphira's amusement though she was busy listening to tales spun by a group of drunk warriors.

The elf princess nodded with a chuckle. "Very well. Teach me how humans dance."

Eragon took her hand, and they spun into the circle, where other pairs hastily made way for them. The other Riders soon joined, even Aesyr leading a hesitant Vanir. Eragon locked gazes with Arya as the music began to swell. _Just follow my lead,_ he said, locking hands with her. The dance began slow, with Arya quickly picking up the steps as Eragon shared his memories. He could feel her eagerness, mixed with slight hesitation.

_This is a dance. Let go,_ he told her as the music swelled and gained speed. He spun her around once, twice, thrice, and they changed partners with a clockwise movement.

Eragon almost jumped when he realized that he was face to face with Meara – a girl from Carvahall who once vocalized her wish to become his bride. The seamstress' daughter, she was tall and proud, always dressed in her best. Her black curls were less tidy since the villagers' ordeals, but she was still quite lovely.

"Eragon," she began with that sultry tone she always used. "Should I call you Shadeslayer now? Or maybe you prefer Argetlam."

"Just Eragon," the Rider replied.

"I saw that elf wench you were dancing with. Have you forgotten about me?" The girl batted her eyelashes, her gray eyes like lifeless marbles even with the sparkling light around them. "We were almost promised before you ran away. What a fool choice."

Eragon narrowed his eyes. "She is not a wench, and as far as I can remember, I have not shown the slightest interest in you. And I doubt I ever will. We were never promised, except in that head of yours."

The partners changed, and he ended up with Nasuada. Anger churned within him quietly, though. "You look upset," Nasuada told him. "What did that girl tell you?"

"She called Arya a wench."

"And you took it as a personal slight?" Nasuada grinned as she let Eragon twirl her around. "My, my, you must be so taken with Arya."

The partners changed four times, and Eragon danced with familiar faces from the village, who were all too shy to talk to him. He eventually ended up with Katrina, who beamed at him. "So you convinced Arya to dance with you? She was quite worried that you will ignore her since there are so many girls from Carvahall tonight."

"Well, if Meara is one of them then I'd rather hide in the shadows all night if there's no friendly face around," muttered Eragon.

Katrina laughed, and it lingered even until the partners changed. Eragon ended up with a few more girls from the village, one of them giggling and batting her eyelashes at him. He breathed a sigh of relief when Aesyr was the next one in the circle. She merely gave him a small smile as they danced together before the partners switched three more times, and Arya was back.

"Something troubles you," she noted. "Is this about that girl who called me a wench?"

Eragon made a mental note not to forget about an elf – and a Rider's – exceptional hearing. "Yes. I couldn't understand why it made me so mad."

Arya smiled brightly, brushing his hair away from his eyes. Her warm touch shent shivers down his spine. "That is very sweet of you," she purred. "Mother truly has underestimated you, but she did not listen to me. One of perhaps many mistakes she made in judging other people."

"What do you mean?"

"She has noticed what we were having between us, and she thought that you would not make a worthy partner." Arya grinned. "But we are young, and have much room to grow."

The exhausted participants of the dance departed for refreshments, leaving Eragon and Arya alone. The human Rider found himself gazing into the elf's green eyes, lost in the emerald pools that flickered in the semidarkness. She smiled and her warm hands cupped his face. Not knowing how to respond, Eragon cupped her face too, and their lips met.

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><p><strong>A story in two parts, or something like that. Anyway, sorry to end this as a cliffhanger, but I seriously didn't know how to continue. XD And besides, I'd like to give the Riders their privacy.<strong>

**Wanted to give Roran and Katrina this scene, but somehow I got sidetracked and it turned into Eragon and Arya. Huh.**

**Anyway, what do you guys think? Any ideas about what happens next chapter? I don't want to spoil...**

**Read and review, as always!**


	5. Pressed for Time

**Disclaimer: See anything you like here? Chances are, they belong to Christopher Paolini.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: Pressed for Time<strong>

Arya's eyes opened as the warmth of the morning sun touched her skin. She raised a hand to her lips with a smile, remembering the events of last night. Neither she nor Eragon had anything much to say to each other after their kiss, merely exchanging grins before Melikir summoned the Riders to visit those recovering from the Battle of the Burning Plains.

She felt sore after their busy day, but she was sure that the following days would be busier for Eragon and Murtagh, who would be returning to the Beors within two weeks to attend the dwarven elections.

Rising, she noticed Firnen, who pushed his head between the tentflaps, an amused gleam in his eye. _Good morning, little pointy-ears,_ he announced. _Your dreams made my head hurt all night, I ended up blocking you out._

Arya felt herself turned red, and chose not to reply as she began her morning ablutions. Finishing and putting on fresh clothes, she stepped out of the tent, stuffing a chunk of bread in her mouth for a quick breakfast. They were supposed to meet with Melikir again.

The meeting pavilion was guarded as always by Melikir's Nighthawks. The penants assembled around it fluttered gently. Brom and Angela were discussing some scrolls, while Solembum the werecat eyed the approaching Rider.

Arya nodded to him, his advice way back in Teirm ringing through her thoughts. She exchanged uneasy glances with Firnen as she stepped in, and the emerald dragon stuck his head in. Melikir was sitting beside Faolin, poring over some reports. "It seems like the Forsworn have pulled back with the rest of the army. This is troubling news," Faolin said. "Though with the impending attack by the elves, it may be more of waiting where they would be needed more, or taking a more defensive move"

Melikir nodded. "We might as well as take advantage of this." He looked up and watched Arya, who was staring at them with a smile. "Hello, why don't you take a seat?"

The young elf nodded and sat beside him. "The Forsworn are leaving?"

Faolin nodded, looking stressed. "I do not know what they are planning, but they are veering toward Uru'baen according to the few spies we have left within the Empire."

Voices preceeded Roran and Katrina, who seemed deep in their own conversation. They stopped as they saw the others watching them, and Katrina flushed, quickly taking a seat beside Arya. Roran stood by the table, back as stiff as a board. Nasuada and Vanir soon followed, seriously discussing possible uses for light cavalry. Right behind them was Murtagh, yawning loudly.

"Do you not think that this is too early?" he groaned. "The sun is barely up."

"You had too much mead last night," scolded Nasuada. "It is a miracle that you managed to wake up early. Did you wake your brother? I think he had even more."

Aesyr stumbled into the pavillion, looking as groggy as her brother. "Drinking a lot the night before an early meeting is not a good idea," she groaned.

Melikir frowned. "Where's Eragon?" he asked. "I really want to start as soon as possible."

"I am here!" Eragon stepped in, his big, sheepish smile sending a jolt through Arya's body.

Melikir crossed his arms. "About time! Time is of the essence." He regarded the eight Riders with those golden eyes of his. "I have received reports that the Forsworn are headed toward Uru'baen as we speak. The army follows them at a slower pace."

"What does this mean for us?"Vanir asked.

"This means that they might be preparing for a trap, or are improving their defenses around their major cities. This also means that we are given more time to prepare. Time that I want to put to good use." Melikir's eyes gleamed. "I have heard how much you were outmatched by the Forsworn and the king's new Riders. We can't let it stay like that. After careful deliberation, I have decided to send you back to Ellesmera. Today."

"Today? But there is so much to do!" argued Nasuada. "So many injured to heal, people to help. And aren't we heading for Feinster?"

"The spellcasters that Queen Islanzadi provided us with shall be enough for now," explained Faolin. "Do not underestimate them, for they are among the best."

Melikir nodded. "It will be for the best. And while you are there, you may want to look for new swords. I am very much aware that your secondary weapons are not what you prefer, and Brom also informed me that all Riders need swords. But I cannot give you more than a week, mind you. The dwarven elections will start soon."

"Very well. It will be enough for now," Eragon said. It seemed like his agreement meant that the other Riders also consented.

And just like that, their meeting ended. The Riders convened outside. "This is surprising," noted Aesyr. "We were summoned to help, and now they're turning us away."

Roran shrugged, "Well, we were severely outmatched when we last faced the Forsworn. Melikir is right. We need to train more, maybe find out about their secrets. We can't stay ignorant forever."

"And we will be leaving them open to an attack," argued Arya. She worried about what might happen if they were all away for an extended period of time. "I do hope that the elves' move would divide the king's attention. That way, with less Forsworn to contend with, they could fight an extended battle until we could travel back."

"So much to hope for," murmured Vanir. "I do not think it is wise, but we must gain an even footing with the Forsworn if we are to battle Galbatorix."

Katrina smiled. "Then what are we waiting for? We should get going."

* * *

><p>Roran could not describe the feeling of freedom that flying with Askanir offered him. The way that the sun kissed his skin and the wind brushing his skin could not compare to any thrill that he could enjoy by himself.<p>

_What terrible secret do you think would our masters reveal to us about the Forsworn's power? _Askanir asked worriedly. He was always a worrier, but that was good. At least it helped Roran stay practical. _Do you think we could match their strength?_

_ If we couldn't, then they would have given up on us a long time ago,_ argued Roran.

The dragon agreed quietly, though he didn't seem convinced. They soared right through the night, the darkness cloaking the land. Roran stared worriedly at his dragon partner. _Are you sure that you can last for three days without sleep?_ He remembered how long it took them to fly from Du Weldenvarden to Aberon.

_Without stopping to sleep, we can take you there in two days,_ bragged Askanir. _Four days from Du Weldenvarden to the Beors._

Roran shook his head with a smile. _Bragging?_

_ Merely stating the truth._

They flew on, reaching the Hadarac Desert by midnight. Roran felt fortunate that they would cross part of that area at night, when the temperature is more bearable. He remembered the first time he crossed the place, and the unimaginable heat that it radiated. By the time that dawn approached, the Riders took care to wrap colorful Surdan headscarves around their faces. Thank goodness Faolin had the foresight to supply them with some.

Though they anticipated it, the gradual heat still came as a blow. Roran wished that there was a spell which could keep off heat, even for just a few meters around people. He should ask some elves about that some other time.

By midday, they were near the edge of the desert, due to the dragons' unrelenting flight, and the fact that they have finally reocvered completely from the battle. The scraggly plains greeted them after an hour, and they flew on, intent on reaching Ellesmera quickly.

They reached Ellesmera later that night.

Dressed in dark clothing of dwarven made – much practical than those fancy elven tunics – the Riders dismounted, approaching the ancient city by foot. A silver-haired elf was waiting for them, dressed in a russet tunic. Gilderien the Wise of House Miolandra, wielder of the White Flame of Vandil, was expecting them. As always, a bright lay of light seemed to whirl around him.

"May we pass, Gilderien-elda?" asked Arya.

"Yes, my young Riders and dragons. So long as you keep the peace, you will always be welcome to stay in Ellesmera." The elf inclined his head and stepped aside, letting them proceed.

Ellesmera was not as busy as it once was. Few elves could be seen, all dressed and ready for battle. They must have been less skilled combatants, marshalled into a final defense of the city should their forest be penetrated.

Maud the werecat watched from the shadow of a tree for a few seconds. She bared her sharp teeth before turning away.

Roran exchanged looks with his cousins, who were as uncomfortable as he felt. "Ellesmera does not feel the same without the elves."

_Well, we are here,_ announced Thorn. _What now? Do we run to our masters and complete our trainin? Or are you to seek Rhunon and demand weapons?_

Eragon frowned. "Well, we should start with what we really have come here for. We need to finish our training."

* * *

><p>The Crags of Tel'nair was exactly how Katrina remembered it. Three massive dragons were curled up in one corner, as if dozing. A table was propped up in the clearing, right in front of the three tree-houses that were occupied by legends – Riders who lived before the Fall.<p>

Oromis, serene as ever, rose to meet them. His two daughters – half-elven Ash and full-blooded Serylda – watched their approaching pupils with wide eyes. Their father smiled tightly as the younger dragons landed. Sardonis and Diamanda looked ready to collapse. Oromis approached them first, murmuring some words quietly that seemed to have stilled them.

The elf joined his daughters, quietly watching the Riders dismount. The three elder dragons padded toward them with curious glints in their eyes.

_I don't know what to make of them,_ Katrina confided to Luneria.

_That is a thing of elves, I suppose,_ replied the dragon.

"We were expecting your return, but not so soon," Oromis finally said, spreading his arms in welcome. "It seems like you are not needed in the Varden."

"As a matter of fact, we are sorely needed," admitted Katrina, remembering Melikir's worried voice… and their defeat in the hands of the Forsworn. She supressed a shudder, not wanting to succumb to the moment of weakness. "Actually, that is also the reason why we were sent here."

"Faolin is sending regular news to the queen," Arya added.

Ash stroked her chin thoughtfully. "We have heard fragments about the Forsworn and two new Riders loyal to Galbatorix…"

"We also lost our weapons to them," mumbled Vanir. He scowled at the unpleasant memory. "We need to learn how to be as strong as them, and get proper swords again. These weapons that you provided us with are not exactly what we are good at. We have been practicing but we need weapons that we are the best at."

"We could give you some relevant information that could help against the Forsworn but… you must focus on the swords for now," Oromis announced. He gave his daughters meaningful looks. "Your lessons we can postpone, for two of your teachers shall be accompanying you. It is time for us to move in the open. But more on that later."

"But… are you strong enough to come with us, Master?" Murtagh asked slowly.

"Elves have been pouring their strength into our sword pommels for the past century. We have enough stored to move mountains. As it seems like the Forsworn have focused on the Varden, my daughters shall accompany you south when you depart, so they could also establish a relationship with the forces there. And I will head for Gil'ead to assist the queen." The elf smiled, raising a hand to stop the Riders' protests. "We have discussed this since you departed. I will join you once the siege is completed."

Serylda sighed. "We will be postponing your lessons, but before you rest and ponder your quest for weapons tonight, we will need to discuss the Forsworn's source of strength."

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><p><strong>Having interracial inheritance from both sides of the family (Chines, Spanish, and Filipino on my dad's side and Chinese, Portugese, Spanish, and Filipino on my mom's), and living somewhere where it's really common, I don't really understand why people freak out over interracial marriages.<strong>

**Anyway, on to the story. Just to clear out the confusion, due to their exhaustion, Roran and Nasuada's Surdan trip with Brom took around 3 or 4 days, while Eragon and Murtagh took around 6 days. None stayed for more than a few hours in their destinations. Roran's team only retrieved some scrolls, while the twins just slept and departed since they'll return at a later time when the dwarven elections commence. And the festival happened on the 7th day.**

**Another cliffie for this chapter! I hope you guys don't mind. Like I mentioned before, some events will happen earlier and some won't take place at all (the Helgrind drama and the subsequent events)...**

**Do you think our Riders will end up angering the Menoa Tree and the elves? And what will the Rider sisters' arrival do to the Varden?**

**Read and review, as always!**

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><p><strong>A question for the dragons from <em>umaroth elda<em> (but master Umaroth, is this a trick question of sorts?): Why are dragons so vain?**

**_Thorn_: Don't the lords of the sky have the right to be vain?**

**_Saphira_: You're not answering the question.**

**_Firnen_: What my good friend meant is that dragons are vain because of our natural beauty. Have you seen how sparkly we are?**

**_Askanir_: Right. Everyone loves sparkly things.**

**_Sardonis_: And don't forget that we can fly! Imagine flying sparkly lizards that breathe fire. That's us. And we're pretty.**

**_Diamanda_: You're a male dragon! Why are you calling yourself pretty?**

**_Sardonis_: It's the truth!**

**_Luneria: _And don't forget! We are as big as houses, so that adds an extra sparkly factor.**

_**Solaris:**_**We love making sure that everyone notices the sparklies, especially when we breathe fire to enhance them.**

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><p><strong>So, do you guys have any additional questions for our dragons? Or a specific dragon? Ask away!<strong>


	6. Blood and Heart

**Disclaimer: Does it still really matter?**

**Warning: The following chapter provides massive spoilers for the Inheritance Cycle. If you haven't read past Brisingr, you might want to stop.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Blood and Heart<strong>

Melikir felt impatient. He knew that what the Riders were up to was important, but he wanted to begin his campaign before the Empire could improve its defenses. At least it would give him enough time to gauge exactly how the people of Carvahall were to be placed in his army.

He just finished approving some reports from Faolin and Brom when he heard a commotion outside. Faolin peered in, his dark hair touseled from his sparring sessions with fellow elves. Those folk weren't pleased with his decision to send the Riders away right when backup arrived, but who were they to judge, anyway? He shook the thought away and raised an eyebrow.

"What is going on?" he asked his friend.

"A caravan approaches from the east," Faolin said with a wary look. "Not one of ours."

Melikir frowned as he got to his feet, belting his sword for good measure. "What do you think? Are they enemies?"

Faolin shook his head and waited for the young leader – and the Nighthawks – to join him outside. People were rushing to the eastern edge of the camp. "I am aware that your dark skin marks you as a descendant of the Wandering Tribes. A caravan of your people approach us."

"The Wandering Tribes?" Melikir nearly choked. He remembered emissaries of his father's people came to visit them in Farthen Dur, talking for hours on end while smoking cardus weed. He could barely fathom why they would come to visit now of all times, when they have not come to Farthen Dur in the past ten years. "What exactly are they playing at?"

Faolin gave him a look. "They will be arriving within the hour. I suggest that you look your best when you go to meet them."

"I want their leader to come to the pavilion. This is my camp, and they will follow my rules. He or she may only take up to four escorts, no more and no less."

"I will have that announced."

Melikir nodded, heading off to his tent. He passed by the small sparring field, where Frederic and a few volunteers were teaching the able-bodied men – and women – from Carvahall more about fighting. The men stopped to salute him. He nodded to them before moving toward his tent – where someone was waiting right outside. Sabrae's vile perfume permeated the air, and Melikir's lip twitched as he approached the woman.

"Lady Sabrae," he said respectfully. "I did not expect you to be here."

"Melikir." The woman eyed him like a predator, and her lack of respect for the young leader did not go unnoticed. How she had time to dress well and paint her cheeks when everyone else at camp was busy was also quite a feat. Unlike Jormundur, she and her fellow Council members still attempted to use Melikir for their own ends. "I have heard that you have made a number of decisions lately without consulting the Council."

"I am much aware that the Council gives out advice, but the final word is still with me. And Jormundur has agreed with my plans."

"Jormundur is but one member, child. You are quite as headstrong as your father, but you lack his experience. You will be biting more than you can chew without us."

"I am also aware that his role aside from being my military advisor would be to act as the intermediary between the Council and I." Melikir smiled. "He would not have agreed to the decisions I made if he had no signal from you whatsoever. I do not know what you are playing at, Sabrae, but I am not a child. I am a man forged by hardship and war. I speak now as the leader of the Varden. Go back to your Council and inform them that I will hold a meeting tonight. We shall be deciding your fates."

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><p>Katrina could feel her cloak rustle as she took a seat beside Ash and Vanir. Oromis poured tea for the small congregation, and there was silence for a while. He finally took his place at the head of the table and began to talk. "Now, regarding the unmatched strength that the Forsworn have displayed…"<p>

"Are you going to tell us more?" Katrina asked eagerly. With her unrivaled gift with magic, she could imagine how much people she could help – healing, fixing things, keeping crops healthy…

"No." Ash's voice was sharp and nervous. "It is not our place to discuss it."

_It is ours,_ Brand whispered. _Galbatorix's power – and in turn, his servants – lies in the hearts of dragons. He steals our strength, and without us, he would have fallen to the elves and the Varden long, long ago._

As if sensing their confusion, Glaedr opened one eye. _If you must know, a number of the dragons whose bodies were slain by Galbatorix still live._

"Live? What do you mean by that?" Arya demanded. "Their bodies are dead. Right now we only have around twenty dragons left… correct?"

Serylda exchanged looks with Aegar. "Around twenty dragons still in their physical bodies, yes."

_We are not like most living creatures, _explained Aegar. _Our consciousness does not solely reside in our skulls. Inside our chests is a hard object, not unlike a gem. It is more similar in composition to our scales, though. It is called the Eldunari, the heart of hearts. It is clear and lusterless when we hatched, like an uncut diamond. It stays that way most of the time until we die, and it dissolves._

"You said that it's most of the time," Katrina began tentatively, her mind whirling like an awakened gear. "This is not the case for the dragons that Galbatorix slew, I am assuming."

_Correct. If we wanted to, we can transfer our consciousness into the Eldunari, and it will gain the color of our scales and glow like a coal. Should we do this, then our Eldunari will outlive our body, and our consciousness will live on. We can also choose to disgorge it while alive, so our body and consciousness may exist separately but stay linked. It is quite useful, but it also leaves us vulnerable, for whoever obtains our Eldunari will hold our very soul in their hands, and force us to do their bidding._

There was a collective shudder among the younger generation of Riders and dragons. Katrina glanced at Luneria. _Were you aware of this Eldunari?_

_ Well, yes._ Luneria did not look nor feel guilty. _Dragons are always aware of their heart of hearts. We feel it inside of us. But we never thought it worthy enough to be mentioned. Why would you think it worthy to mention that you have a stomach? Or any other organ, for that matter? None of us realized its importance until we started training, and by the, we were asked to swear oaths not to speak of this until the time is right._

_ That's odd. But I trust their decision._

_ As we should._

Eragon did not seem to share the same sentiment as he scowled at their teachers. "Why did you not tell us of this sooner."

Ash mirrored his scowl. "And I thought you would be the wisest. We were trying to protect your dragons from you."

"From us?" Eragon's frown deepened.

_Yes, from you,_ growled Glaedr. _Wild dragons learned about the Eldunari from their elders when they were old enough to bear the burden. It is done this way so that no dragon would transfer their consciousness into their heart of hearts without understanding its impact on their lives. Among the Riders, we do not discuss it during the first few years of partnership. We needed to wait until the Rider and dragon established a healthy, stable relationship before informing either of them of the Eldunari. We are avoiding situations where a young dragon might disgorge the Eldunari to appease or impress a partner Rider. Giving up an Eldunari is giving up the embodiment of our entire being. We cannot take it back once we have disgorged it. Such an act is momentous, important. It is not to be taken lightly, for it will change their very lives, even if they live much longer._

"So, Galbatorix may have forced most dragons to disgorge it moments before their death, then?" Vanir asked worriedly.

"Yes," Serylda murmured. "Though not all dragons disgorged their Eldunari, many have been controlled and forced."

Roran glanced at his hammer. "Is it possible to destroy one?"

Aegar eyed him calmly. _Well, it is possible, but would need immense force that can only be accomplished by a powerful spellcaster. If the dragon's consciousness is already within the heart of hearts, then they will die a true death. Before our pact with the elves, our hearts were kept in Du Fells Nangoroth, which you may have seen during your travels in the Hadarac Desert. Once the Riders have taken the island of Vroengard, a repository for Eldunari was created, where wild and paired dragons entrusted their hearts for safekeeping._

"So I presume that this repository was raided during the war, then."

"Not all at once, though," Oromis said. His daughters both looked uncomfortable with the subject.

As the discussion of the Eldunari continued, the shadows of the night lengthened. They have not exhausted the subject until well past midnight. As the teachers and pupils lapsed into thoughtful silence, the forest seemed to grow still too.

* * *

><p>Eragon's tea already grew cold, but he still sipped it quickly, realizing just how thirsty he was. <em>Once we leave, I am sure that we will never return to these Crags. Or at least, this place – and we – will never be the same.<em>

_ Of that I am also sure,_ agreed Saphira. Her warm presence enveloped his mind, providing comfort and strength. _We will come out of this war as better people, believe me._

"So what are you planning now?" Oromis asked, breaking the physical silence. "We have discussed the reason behind the Forsworn's strength, and as we have mentioned, your tutelage will continue as my daughters shall be accompanying you back to the Varden."

"These questions and our continuing education are just part of the reason why we returned here," Eragon admitted. _We must tell them about Teirm,_ he added for the others.

_Would it be wise? _Katrina asked.

_What are you talking about? _Aesyr demanded.

Eragon explained their meeting with Angela and Solembum in Teirm. He explained how they all visited the shops at different times and heard about their fortunes. Lastly, he told them about the odd advice that Solembum also gave them.

"You and Faolin talk much about this fortuneteller," Oromis said slowly. "This Angela seems to turn up wherever and whenever significant events are about to take place. She reminds me of an apparently human spellcaster who once visited Ellesmera. She did not go by that name, though. Does she have curly brown hair, gray eyes, and a sharp – but odd – wit?"

"Yes," Arya said with wide eyes. "You have just described her perfectly."

"How extraordinary," Ash whispered. "I believe she visited Ellesmera before Galbatorix waged his war against us."

"That will be a mystery for another day, sister." Serylda chuckled softly. "What we should be concerned about would be her prophecies, for they are most curious. But we cannot do anything about those either, can we?"

Oromis nodded. "Indeed. The werecat's words are also quite curious, though his statements are not making any sense to me, as you humans may say. I have never heard about any Vault of Souls before, but the Rock of Kuthian strikes a familiar chord in my memory." His daughters squirmed as he mentioned the last sentence. "I will try to search my scrolls, but it is not an assurance that I will find anything."

Nasuada's eyes seemed to glow. "How about the weapon under the Menoa Tree?"

"I have spent much time acquainting myself with the lore of this forest. Only two other elves might be more knowledgeable than I in this field. I will try to inquire, but as I said about the Rock of Kuthian and the Vault of Souls, it is not an assurance that I will find anything."

Ash's soft eyes wandered over the Riders' faces. "I understand why you are desperate to know more. Though you still wield formidable weapons, nothing could compare to a Rider's blade. Aside from the four swords we keep here, there are only two other such weapons in this forest. One is Tamerlein, currently housed in the halls of House Valtharos, a personal treasure of Lord Fiolr. He would not willingly part with it, though."

"And what about the other sword?"

"Aeryndight is currently in Ellesmera too, but I doubt that Trandemiel will part with it." Serylda shook her head. "It was his father's."

"Well, we should send word to Rhunon's forge so she will expect you later today," Ash said, giving her sister a quick, distraught glance.

Did she have a history with this Trandemiel?

"But she swore never to create any weapons again," Arya said quietly. "She can't, even if she wants to."

"Well, that is true," Oromis said placidly. "But her advice would still be quite important. She could help you with this weapon you seek."

Aesyr peered forward in excitement. She looked less and less like the shy girl she used to be with every passing day. "Is it possible for another elf to forge swords for us?"

"They can, but it won't be the same as those that Rhunon had crafted for the Riders. She is one of the oldest of our race, and is the sole smith who made swords for our order."

Eragon felt his eyes widen. "She is as old as the Riders?"

Ash laughed. "Oh, Eragon-finiarel, she is much, much older."

"For now though, 'tis better if you go and sleep first. It is quite late, and you look exhausted from your travels," Serylda told them gently. "You may want to visit the Menoa Tree too, I am aware that the House Drottning have some special songs and spells that help in communicating with it. Your tree houses are maintained by Islanzadi's servants."

* * *

><p>Melikir smoothed his red and gold coat, wondering why one must sacrifice comfort in order to look good. The high collar was starting to make his neck itch. A loud roar of laughter outside meant that the tribe leader was approaching. They were a cheery lot, though sometimes it seemed like it was also an intimidation tactic.<p>

Seeing men confident enough to laugh and joke around in potentially hostile territory was quite unsettling.

He shook the thought off and straightened his back, feeling Brom and Faolin's gazes on him. He was sure that he would need their support before the meeting was over. One of the Nighthawks dashed inside with a bow. "Lord Melikir, Fadawar of the Inapashunna Tribe arrives with his contingent."

Melikir nodded, thankful for the presence of two powerful protectors who might be able to jump in should bloodshed ensue before his Nighthawks could storm into the pavilion. He also made sure to hide knives up his sleeves and in his boots.

Fadawar marched in, brushing the departing Nighthawk aside with a disdainful look as he did so, his long dark hair topped by a massive, ornate gold crown. Thick chains of gold hung from his neck, probably so heavy that the man used all his available energy in keeping his head up. Golden bangles covered his forearms, and he even had a golden breastplate. Hoops of gleaming white gold stretched his earlobes to painful proportions. He even had a scepter made of the same metal.

Just preventing their eyes from hurting from so many gold was also quite a feat.

The other four men who accompanied Fadawar were dressed similarly, though not as lavish as their leader. The Wandering Tribes used gold to proclaim wealth, status, and individual deeds… and of course, to brag about their tribe's skilled craftsmen. Only dwarves could match their craft.

Seeing him that way, Melikir knew it was a wise decision not to garb himself in tribesman jewelry. Aside from being unable to match Fadawar's eye-burning splendor, he did not wish to affiliate himself with any group. After all, the Varden was open to anyone and everone who opposed Galbatorix, and he spoke for all factions within the organization.

"Melikir, son of Ajihad," Fadawar began. "I am Sagabato-no Inapashunna Fadawar, your cousin on your mother's side. And I speak here as your warlord, your tribesman, and as family. We have not seen each other for years." The warlord looked unhappy. "Your father has turned his back on the beliefs of his people and denied us our rights. All I ask is for you to consider your family. We have always affiliated ourselves with the Varden because you are family. Would you not extend the same to us? We give you our support. All I – I mean, we – ask from you in return would be to give us a place in your organization as befits your people and your family."

Melikir raised an eyebrow and he sighed. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

><p><strong>Being notoriously guilty for updating horridly slowly, consider Bloodforge my way of making up for the fiasco that was Bloodlines and the horrible update speed it suffered from.<strong>

**Rereading the series, it amazes me how much I disliked the Council of Elders and Fadawar. Power hungry gits. So Melikir will have a showdown with his cousin next chapter, and probably kick the Council's collective ass if I can manage.**

**I'm playing with the possibilities that Ash and Serylda will offer, especially during the final battle. I don't want to kill them or their dragons, though. And I'm having second thoughts about Oromis too. Looks like you guys like him a lot!**

**As for how the Riders will get the shiny, shiny treasure under the Menoa Tree, I want to do something different. But I don't want to surprise you guys yet.**


	7. A Song of Longing

**Disclaimer: Anything remotely familiar from the original series is NOT MINE.**

**Wishing you guys a happy holidays! :3**

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: A Song of Longing<strong>

The talk with Fadawar was becoming too exhausting. Melikir hated it when people tried to make themselves feel important in a certain group because of wealth, bloodlines, and connections instead of true merits. Shaking his head, he tried to maintain his calm demeanor, but it was hard. Fadawar was as infuriating as Ajihad mentioned days before his death.

They were sorely needed, though.

"You deny what is rightfully ours, twisted by these outlanders' selfish way. The right to power by blood is for us! That is why I am here. I wish to correct your betrayal, you young fool." At first, Melikir thought that his cousin was merely prejudiced against women. It turned out that he was also misguided when it came to people outside the tribe, and to youth. "We are your people. Do you still follow our customs? Dare you still worship our gods?"

Melikir realized the significance of the moment. He sensed the tension of Brom and Faolin behind him. "I do. But I will not stoop down to your degraded ways."

"I am your warlord, and as such, I must come before other organizations – even kingdoms. And I see that you, as someone below me, are unfit to lead the Varden. It is my right to say so, and it is my right to take you away from your position. Even by force if needed."

There were blades drawn behind Melikir, and he raised a hand to stop his two advisors. "You wouldn't dare. And I will not let you nor your misguided beliefs ruin what we have worked for for almost a century!"

Fadawar displayed a feral grin, revealing that he was plotting for that exact moment. "Then I challenge you to the Trial of the Long Knives. Should you succeed, then we shall bow to you and never question your authority. If you lose, then you shall step aside. I shalltake your place as head of the Varden. I shall take your head and marry your youngest sister."

He heard choking sound from Faolin. He turned to the elf, who gave him a fiery look. He could feel his friend's alien mind pressing against his thoughts. _There is too much at stake. Must you proceed?_

_ If I back down, then it will be treated like I have lost. Please contact King Orrin, Jormundur, Trianna, and Angela. They will be needed._ Melikir turned back to Fadawar. "Very well." He took off his coat and his tunic, then his trousers. Left in his smallclothes, he never felt so vulnerable before.

He smiled, baring his teeth to Fadawar. "As I am aware of, there must be six witnesses on both sides. I suggest you call two more. And oh, by the way, I thought it was tradition that the winner shall assume command of his rival's tribes in addition to his own."

* * *

><p>It was in at least a couple of hours before dawn. Arya rose early and dressed herself in dark clothing. She did not want to be seen. She put her sword belt in place, though, since she never could feel right without it anymore. She was about to tiptoe out of her tree house when she noticed Firnen watching her with one lazy green eye.<p>

_You are planning something,_ he noted. _Maybe I could help._

Arya stared at him. _If it involved a dragon tearing through Tialdari Hall, then I wouldn't have minded. But I'm sorry, Firnen. The best you can do would be to make sure no one is alerted to my presence. I need to sneak into my mother's quarters._

_ I have known you were contemplating that all night, but why?_

_ All kings and queens of elves have a song that they pass down to their successors – it is a way to communicate with the Menoa Tree, and Linnea herself. A prophet once foretold that this song shall be needed someday. Well, now we need to communicate with the tree, no matter what we shall be discussing with Rhunon._

_ Then why not simply ask your mother, then? I believe that would be simpler._ Scales rustled as Firnen shifted himself to a more comfortable position. It seemed like he truly did not want to budge from his cushion.

Arya smiled. _It is only passed down to the direct heir, or if none exists, the closest candidate, in a special lockbox that can only be opened by the ruler or someone who shares her direct blood. My mother does not place any safety measures in her quarters, so it should be simple enough._

_And if you get caught?_

_ Just trust me._ Arya slipped out of her room and dashed out of the tree-house. Silence ruled in the clearing, as the other Riders were already asleep. She sang under her breath, feeling her energy drain out as her skin slowly darkened to match Nasuada's. It was a simple enough spell, though a little draining to sustain. But it was trivial enough.

Ellesmera was strangely dark, with just a few denizens left to maintain it. Even the normally bright lights in and around Tialdari Hall were shut off, as the members of Arya's House all marched to war, and the servants back in their own homes for the night. The rustle of leaves betrayed an approaching elf. Arya padded to the left, concealing herself in the shadows of a massive tree and a few bushes.

A couple of canoodling elves passed her, and she fought hard not to gag. For all their restraint, elves could be particularly liberal when it was unnecessary. As soon as they were out of her earshot, she stalked back into Tialdari Hall, leaping through a window created by intertwining tree branches.

She was in a small garden, and she immediately recognized the room. The black morning glory created by Faolin could be seen in the distance, even through the darkness that veiled the hall. She left through the northern doorway, padding through halls and courtyards, deftly leaping past a small stream. She soon reached her mother's halls.

_She will not be pleased if she finds out,_ Firnen warned her faintly.

_Just wait._

Arya held her breath and darted into her mother's quarters, which remained unprotected. She was going to have a word with her after the war – as a Rider, of course. She let out a shaky breath as she sat down on her mother's circular bed. She remembered her childhood, a few days after her father's death, when she peered from a door as her suddenly distant mother showed the lockbox to Faolin.

_Has the death of your sire damaged your mother beyond repair? _Firnen's concern resonated through their bond.

_It has. My brother and I recovered from her wounds, but it seems like she let hers fester._ Arya dispelled the memories, and found her mother's wardrobe, unlocking it with a simple spell. _She has let her common sense leave her. Now, I will read the song, and you will remember it for me._

* * *

><p>The frantic beating of the drums brought out by Fadawar's warriors seemed to set Melikir's blood on fire, increasing his sense of desperation, anger, and within all that, courage. Orrin stared coldly at him, in stark contrast to his earlier violent outburst upon learning of Melikir's choices. He gripped the opal-studded hilt of the curved knife produced by one of the warriors. Though Fadawar had an athletic build, Melikir knew that it was not an indication of potential success in this trial. The man had five scarred ridges on his arm, though.<p>

Melikir fought back another surge of fear. He had to outlast Fadawar if the Varden and Alagaesia had any hope of survival.

Fadawar went first, as was custom for those who initiated the trial. Holding his left arm straight out from his shoulder, palm up, he sliced his flesh, just below the crease of his elbow. Blood welled up quickly from the wound.

With a quick prayer to the praying mantis goddess, Gokukara, Melikir smiled, drawing his own knife across his arm. The blade was so sharp, it was difficult not to cut too deeply. It was a test of will and strength, true, but it was also a battle of minds. An aspiring warlord or tribe chief must endure more pain than anyone for the sake of the tribe. Apparently. He did not know whose sick mind created this challenge. Aside from what he stood to lose by being bested by Fadawar, he knew that winning would also bolster the Varden and Surda's confidence in him. The pain came a second after the wound. Pulse pounding in his ears, Melikir managed to widen his grin, keeping his muscles slack to avoid increasing the pain he felt.

Keeping the faces of everyone who believed in him inside his mind, Melikir drew the second slit. Then the third. And the fourth. All the while keeping his composure and smiling at his foe. As Melikir drew the fifth cut, he suddenly felt drowsy. He never felt so tired and cold. His noble notions of how the trial would be decided vanished, replaced by dread. This contest would probably be lost to the man who faints first from blood loss.

Not exactly a reassuring thought.

He could feel the blood pooling by his feet, see the red puddle around Fadawar's boots. He could see the gaping red slits on the warlord's arm, reminding him of the gills of the fish. He found it oddly funny, and it took all his strength to keep himself from giggling.

Fadawar howled triumphantly as he completed his sixth cut. "You foolish youth! Best that!" he screamed, making Orrin and Trianna cringe. He dropped to his knee, gritting his teeth.

Melikir fought his whooziness and completed the sixth gut. Both men transferred their knives to their left hands, as tradition dictated that only up to six cuts can be made on an arm, lest veins and tendons near the wrist get damaged.

An alarmed Orrin ran between them. "Stop, you fools! I won't – and can't – allow this to continue! Someone might get killed!"

"You meddling idiot! Let us finish this," growled Melikir.

As Fadawar started to cut his right forearm, Melikir noted that he was clenching, which might be enough to break him. In turn, the young leader let out a shaky cry as he made the seventh cut, feeling an increased intensity in pain. His arm twitched, and the knife swerved, leaving a deeper, jagged wound. Tears welled up in his eyes and he gritted his teeth.

Fadawar took a while longer to make the eighth wound. He stared at his rival, the cuts, and the spectators before gritting his teeth and slicing his arm. It seemed like he was starting to waver.

Melikir smiled. He lost track of when he lost his confidence before, but now it was back in full strength. He let out a savage laugh as he slid the knife across his arm twice. "You may want to try besting that," he said breathlessly.

Fadawar seemed intimidated by the prospect of having to make two cuts in a row. After all, he had to equal Melikir's cuts and also advance the contest. He blinked rapidly, licking his lips. There seemed to be a surreal tint to the scene when the warlord adjusted his knife thrice before positioning it over his arm. He moistened his lips, and his left hand spasmed, dropping the knife. He knelt to pick it up and did not move for a while, chest heaving. Then he straightened up , pressing the knife to his arm. He barely drew blood when he howled, dropping the knife once more and doubling over with a shudder.

The drums stopped.

* * *

><p>The bright early morning sunlight seemed to clash with the jarring silence and emptiness in Ellesmera. Nasuada rubbed her arms uncomfortably and suppressed a shudder. They headed for Rhunon's forge to seek the straightforward smith's advice.<p>

Inside the forge, Rhunon was talking to two elf males. One was tall and fair-haired, with a high-necked robe of green and gold, its collar flaring behin his head like an exotic bird's neck feathers. He carried a pearl-mounted wand of white wood, inscribed with elven glyphs. He turned as the conversation drifted off, his pale, blue marble eyes piercing.

In his hand was an unsheathed sword – a Rider's blade. It had a pale green shade, like mint leaves, wider than an average sword. It had a rounded tip, its blued steel hilt heavier. The emerald on its pommel glinted. It wasn't fit for the fighting style that Brom taught the Riders, though, made more for cutting and slashing, like Serylda's.

"Ah, we have not yet been acquainted," he said. "I am Lord Fiolr, head of the House Valthanos." He bowed, exchanging the traditional elven greetings with the Riders. "An honor, such an honor, to meet you."

The other elf faced him… and he wasn't exactly an elf. It seemed like he was a half-elf, like Ash. His ears tapered to delicate points, but his face still had some distinctly human features. Round brown eyes peered at them as he brushed back his light brown hair. He also held a Rider's sword – a blue-green blade that was slim and fast. An aquamarine sat on its pommel, shining like ice crystal. He beamed at the Riders. "I am Tryndemiel of House Rilvenar. You have met one of my distant cousins, Lifaen."

Rhunon smiled wryly. "You look at askance about the swords they wield. Fiolr owns Tamerlein, sword of Rider Arva. He was a mighty one, more straightforward than the rest. I liked him."

Fiolr shot a disdainful stare toward the smith before turning to the Riders, assuming a patronizing look. "Arva was the brother of my mate, Naudra, who was visiting him when Galbatorix and the Forsworn struck Ilirea. Kialandi of the Forsworn killed him, and Naudra received his sword. She fought free of the Forsworn with another dragon and Rider. Alas, she died of her wounds."

Tryndemiel smiled. "If you want to hear a tragic story about the Rider blade that I wield, then you would be disappointed," he told the Riders. "Aeryndight is the sword of my human sire. I never met him, if you must know."

Rhunon nodded, giving him an approving look. "They are simply here for my yearly inspection on the states of their swords. And I declare them both to be in the best condition. Now off with the two of you! I believe I have an appointment with the Riders here."

Tryndemiel nodded as he was shooed away, but Fiolr looked scandalized. No one spoke for a while. Then, Rhunon crossed her arms. "That Fiolr believes that he is high and mighty for he is among the oldest of a prominent house. If age is what he is looking for, then I believe I am his senior for some millenia. Tryndemiel has attitude, by the way. I like him." She paused and regarded the Riders. "Oromis sent word to me that you lost your swords to the Forsworn."

"Aye, that's true," Eragon announced. Nasuada felt herself turn red upon remembering their disastrous defeat.

"Treacherous, greedy pigs. Every Rider deserves a sword. Though those served you well, unfortunately they weren't perfect partners for you. Believe me, I didn't want the Forsworn to defile my work, but you would do better with swords made specifically for you." Rhunon eyed them critically. "And where is Brom? He was a rude one, but I like him more than my own race. See how polite and refined they are now, so withdrawn. I prefer the company of marble statues to most of them."

_Did you mean before your race made a pact with ours? _Saphira asked, broadcasting her curiosity to everyone.

Rhunon nodded briskly before turning back to the Riders. "Now, you will not be served well by regular swors. Riders need blades that survive the most violent impacts, and unaffected by spells. We do that by singing over hot metal while extracting the ore and forging it to alter and improve the structure of the metal. A shame that my oaths bind me now."

"They will not be instruments of destruction, but of peace," offered Nasuada. "With new swords, you will put an end to Galbatorix's reign, using swords you forged to counter those that Galbatorix and his Forsworn used."

"It is not just justice in the poetic sense," Eragon agreed in excitement. "You will be balancing the scales, forging the instruments of their doom! You hate how they have used their weapons, so we will make a new history for your work."

Rhunon looked up, a faraway expression on her weary face. "A chance to do something I have always loved, even with all these restraints put upon me?" She smiled beatifically as she turned to face the Riders once more. "There is a small chance that I can help you, but I cannot speculate. I cannot try without the metal I need."

Arya's eyes glinted. "What do you need, then?"

"Brightsteel – an ore unlike any I have handled before it was discovered from the fragments of a shooting star. Stronger, harder, and more flexible than any other metal I have worked with, it also ahd an uncommon brilliance. Queen Tarmunora asked me to forge the first Riders' swords, and it seemed fitting that I use it. I always saved my brightsteel for the Riders. It grew more and more rare, until I was not able to find any more aside from the last seven swords that I created before the fall. That included Undbitr and Zar'roc both. It took me twenty and four years to find the last deposit. And I tried again, last night, after Oromis talked to me, but none came up. If we do not find any speck of brightsteel, then this discussion would be pointless blathering."

* * *

><p>Thoughts whirling in excitement, Murtagh turned to Thorn as they left Rhunon's workshop. <em>Brightsteel must be what Solembum meant in that advice of his!<em>

_ Possible, but how would he know? Besides, Rhunon lives in Ellesmera. How could she not find brightsteel under the Menoa Tree?_

Thorn gave him a long look before continuing. _Maybe the tree told him or something. It doesn't really matter, as long as we know what to do next, right?_

"So what exactly shall we be doing now?" Vanir demanded from them. "We cannot chop the roots of the Menoa Tree. It is not right. And we do not even know where to look for this brightsteel."

Arya smiled. "Trust me, I'll take care of it."

They headed for the Menoa Tree, where two dragons roosted on the bigger branches. Brand and Aegar flicked their tails in greeting. Their Riders, the half-sisters Serylda and Ash, were investigating the roots of the tree.

"Ah, it seems like your meeting was Rhunon was brief," Ash said. "Did she decline to forge you new swords?"

"As a matter of fact, she wanted to try," admitted Murtagh. "But she lacks the ore that will be needed. We have many reasons to believe that it is the 'weapon' underneath this tree."

"But we can't just hack off the roots!" Serylda protested, though her hand twitched to her massive blade.

Arya stepped forward, her dark hair fluttering in the slight breeze. "Let me take care of this," she said. She knelt by the roots of the tree, and laid a hand on its massive trunk. Clearing her throat, she began to sing in the ancient language.

The words blended with the music, and it felt like Murtagh's mind immediately stopped trying to understand what she was singing. The tree's branches began to sway with the music. It made him feel a quiet longing for something that he could not quite comprehend, though. He bowed his head, simply drinking in the song.

When the music suddenly jolted to a stop, he looked up to see the Arya immobilized by a root wrapped around her legs. He sensed Eragon stepping forward to help and held out his hand to stop him. In turn, the other dragons restrained a panicking Firnen. "Wait. I think they are communicating to each other."

Ash nodded. "That was the Song of Longing, passed down from ruler to ruler. I do not know how she learned it, or if the tree will listen to someone right now aside from Islanzadi."

_Her mind is closed to me since she started singing,_ the agitated Firnen added.

Arya let out a shaky breath as the ground began to tremble. Still, Murtagh made sure that no one approached her. Why couldn't they feel the forest as he did? Especially Roran and Eragon, who were raised as hunters? They should know better than to endanger their friend who was stalking a dangerous prey.

The forest suddenly grew still, like drawing a great breath. Then, the roots in front of Arya shuddered and moved aside, revealing a lump of corroded iron two feet long and at least one foot and a half wide. The roots loosened, releasing Arya.

"See? It would not have hurt her. But it might, if you did something rash," Murtagh said.

"What was that? It was like you had some connection with the forest," Nasuada said with wide eyes. The fear in those golden pools sent a twinge of pain in the red Rider's gut.

"Hunter's instincts. I don't know why, but they feel… improved."

Ash knelt down beside Arya, picking up the brightsteel. "Here, let me carry this for you. Rhunon will be very interested in this ore here, but I'm more interested in what happened."

Eragon protectively strode toward them, and Murtagh fought the urge to snort and tease him. He turned to Thorn, who watched him curiously. _You two-legs never cease to amaze me,_ he said in his deep, thoughtful voice.

* * *

><p><strong>A short, quick chapter before Christmas! And it's Christmas Eve, everyone's going to be pretty busy so I had to pull this out now... though I'll be slaving away at work both today and tomorrow :(<strong>

**I wasn't able to add the ass-kicking part for the Council, but I'll insert it next chapter, along with snippets from a week of forging swords with Rhunon-elda.**

**Thank goodness the Riders didn't have to get in trouble with the Menoa Tree...**

**Do you guys have any questions for the dragons? Or even the Riders? We'll have another Q&A session if someone posts questions in their review...**

**Have you guys ever played Dragon Age: Origins? I'm totally melting for Alistair.**

**Read and review, as always! And happy holidays, you guys!**


	8. Molded by Fire

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, but you know nothing, Jon Snow.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: Molded by Fire<strong>

Arya rubbed her head, barely remembering what happened with the Menoa Tree. It felt like making proper contact with it blurred and fuzzed her mind, making her aware of what happened but forget what exactly they have talked about. She sighed, trudging behind her friends.

_You scared me,_ Firnen admitted after a moment of silence. _I thought the tree would kill you. Murtagh asked the others to restrain me. And Eragon._

That drew a smile to Arya's lips. _Ah, sometimes I think the two of you would work better as a pair, with the way you both overreact._

_ We react that way because we both worry about you,_ the dragon replied pointedly.

They reached Rhunon's forge, and Ash barged in with a smile. "Rhunon-elda," she announced happily in a sing-song voice. "You know that brightsteel you were looking for? We just found it."

Rhunon looked up from the chainmail she was working on, her eyes narrowed before widening as she gazed upon the brightsteel ore in Ash's hands. "You found it," she said. "You used those words to sum up the great feat you have managed. Something I, a master blacksmith who is an expert in scouring for ores, did not manage to do?"

Ash smiled. "It was not exactly I," she admitted. She gave the Riders a sly look. "Young Arya here actually used the Song of Longing. That only the queen should know."

Arya felt herself blush and exchanged looks with Firnen, who had one big eye peering at the window. It was like the dragons have piled themselves together at the entrance of the forge to watch the proceedings. "I had my ways," she said with a smile.

"You had us all worried there," admitted Katrina with a nervous laugh.

Rhunon took the ore from Ash, cradling it curiously as the Eragon explained about Solembum and the Menoa Tree. She smiled like a mother reuniting with her long-lost child. "Curious. Most curious." She stared at the Riders, and then peered out of a window to observe the dragons. "This will be enough for me to make swords for you. And several more in the future. And so I shall give you swords the likes of which have never been seen before among the Riders."

"But you swore an oath, right?" Aesyr began tentatively. "I mean, that's why you did not make more weapons after the war."

"Yes, but we must not think of it for the time being." Rhunon's eyes glinted in excitement. "Now, when must you rejoin the Varden?"

"As soon as possible, hopefully within the week," Arya began. "But we will stay as long as we can."

"I'll work with one or two of you every day, then. We must hurry, so I must use magic. Otherwise, it would take me weeks just to make one sword. By hand. You and your dragons shall help. I shall not rest until I finish all swords within the week."

"Now, then," she began. "Who wants to go first?"

* * *

><p>Eragon watched his companions depart, leaving him and Saphira behind with Rhunon. He changed into a tight-fitting jerkin and a special fabric apron. He was garbed similarly to the smith, and followed the elf into a grotto-like chamber concealed in a tree trunk. Charcoal and white-hued clay bricks were stashed there.<p>

With a spell, the two lifted a number of the bricks and brought them right next to the open-walled forge, followed by man-sized bags of charcoal. They arranged the supplies and slowly built the smelter, which was quite complex. The elf smith also refused to use magic for the procedure. Eragon's mind blurred through it all, not really noting down what they were working on.

_I've always wondered how smiths work, but I am sure that Horst's work is nothing like this,_ he told Saphira.

Saphira was amused. _Elves are odd creatures. You must remember that._

They ate some bread and cheese afterward, washing it down with cold water. They then lit the through that they created on fire, lining the bottom with pieces of seasoned oak. Rhunon tended the fire, which reflected in her golden eyes.

Minutes ticked away until she nodded to the Rider. "Now."

Eragon gently lifted the heavy ore, lowering it into the through with care. He released it once he could not bare the heat anymore and yelped. Sparks flew out, swirling brightly before him. _I almost singed my eyebrows!_

_ Well, that would be an amusing experience,_ Saphira retorted with amusement.

Eragon rubbed his hands together to get rid of the dust, he shoveled charcoal to fuel the fire. He headed for the bellows, grasping one set and pumping it. Rhunon mirrored him on the other side, fueling the fire's heat.

Saphira seemed to be aflame as the light and sparks caused her scales to glimmer brighter than Eragon could ever remember. Pumping the bellows, shoveling coal, breathing in and out… it created a steady rhythm, and time flowed by quietly. Eragon let out a sigh as Rhunon signaled for them to leave the bellows, shoveling the glowing coals out of the smelter and into a barrel of water. The coal sizzled, emitting a foul smell that brought tears to Eragon's eyes.

A glowing pool of white-hot metal was revealed, all impurities driven off by the process. Rhunon covered the metal with white ash and sat on her bench. "Now we wait."

* * *

><p>The Riders waited at the clearing for Eragon to join them. Katrina was perched between Luneria and Solaris, comfortably seated shoulder to shoulder with Nasuada as Murtagh and Arya tended to the small bonfire. Aesyr was chatting happily with Roran as they prepared the small feast that Serylda and Ash left them with. At a distance, Vanir held out his hands, making the fire burst into vivid colors.<p>

"I wish life were always this peaceful," Katrina mused, eyes half-closed. The warmth of the two dragons were threatening to lull her to sleep. Until her stomach growled.

"I heard that," Arya called out with a grin.

"I wonder how Eragon is faring…" Vanir began as joined the two girls. So much of his haughtiness had burned out since the battle at the Burning Plains.

Murtagh laughed. "I am sure that he is finding ways to complain right now. He is doing fine, though. I am also sure of that."

Katrina laughed. She knew how much Eragon loved to complain. "I think it would not be healthy for him to refrain from doing what he loves the most."

"Now, now, aren't we being a little unfair there?" Nasuada asked. "Surely his brother complains as much as he does."

Roran distributed the food in ornate elven plates. The smell of fruits and mushroom pies permitted the air. He took a deep breath and glanced at Katrina, his violet eyes glittering like little chips of amethyst. He beamed. "What I wouldn't give for Brom to entertain us with another story like he did when we fled Carvahall."

Katrina smiled. "But we are making our own stories right now. Legends. Would that not be greater?"

As if on cue, fireflies flew out of the trees as dusk began to cover them with its velvet darkness. The stars began to dance into view, twinkling little diamonds that felt like lifetimes away. The sweet smell of flowers permeated the air, making Katrina draw a deep breath.

The night felt perfect.

Aesyr poked the fire with a long stick, tossing back her rust-brown hair before turning back to her companions. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like once all of this is over?"

"I have dreamed of it many times," Murtagh mused. "Maybe we could revive the glory of Vroengard, rebuild the Riders. I wouldn't look forward to Elder duties though, whatever that would mean."

Aesyr made a face, her resemblance to her brothers and cousins suddenly evident. "Most definitely not."

The Riders broke into laughter, and their talk continued well into the night.

A weary Eragon soon approached them, slumped against Saphira's back. His face was sooty, his rust-hued hair sticking up. He waved to them tiredly as they approached, the small bonfire sputtering out.

"You are all fortunate. You would not be working half as hard as I was, according to Rhunon," he began.

"I told you he would be complaining!" Murtagh hooted. "He always does."

"An Eragon who does not complain has forgotten himself," agreed Vanir with a slight smile.

"Ah, you all mock me," the younger twin groaned. He gave the other Riders a grand look. "As you have all volunteered for me to be Rhunon's test subject, she gave me the freedom to choose who is to go next."

Roran chuckled. "That should be interesting."

Eragon glared at him before turning to Murtagh. "The smith expects you first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

><p><strong>A short filler chapter. I've been having a busy week, and being distracted by Dragon Age Origins and Alistair adds to it. And good to hear that some of you guys have played some of the series' games! Ahhh! I have a girl crush on Morrigan. Seriously!<strong>

**Anyway, I didn't want to rewrite the old forging scene. That'd be tedious!**

**I was supposed to put Melikir in this chapter, but somehow it didn't fit. But you'll see him in Chapter 9 or 10. I promise.**

**DA fans, I have a new fanfic that you might want to check out. It's called From the Ground Up. XD**

**Anyway, read and review, as always!**


	9. A Sudden Blaze

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, Jon Snow. Now go and marry Danaerys!**

**A word of warning: while Melikir's POV is pretty badass, you may want to skip the POV after that if you don't want to be bored to death from repetitive stuff.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9: A Sudden Blaze<strong>

It was the fifth day after Rhunon began to forge the Riders' swords. The sun was rising on the horizon when the eight Riders were summoned to the elf's workshop, just a few hours after the last Rider to work with her, Vanir, stumbled into his tree house half-supported by Diamanda. He had only a few hours of sleep before being roused early by his own dragon padding noisily around his sleeping quarters.

He was sorely tempted to toss a pillow in her direction but fought back the urge.

His eyes slowly opened as he sat up, exhaustion still lingering in his limbs. Diamanda stopped moving as he did, and she regarded him with her stormy eyes. _Ah, you have awakened. The others wait for you outside with breakfast. Rhunon is getting impatient, I heart._

_And no time for me to at least look decent?_ Vanir raised an eyebrow as his lips quirked up into an amused smile.

_Very well, but please hurry. I do not wish to anger her._

Vanir nearly laughed. Nearly. He went through his morning ablutions quickly, donning on a random white tunic and a dark cloak. He joined the other Riders assembled downstairs, and Arya handed him some mushroom pies. He ate quickly as the dragons carried them to Rhunon's forge. It was a lovely day, but seeing the city so empty was unnerving.

War changes everyone and everything.

_No one will ever be the same even once we gain our freedom,_ he mused.

Diamanda agreed. _The world itself as we know it will change. Why should the people stay the same? What you must concern yourself with is whether it will be for better or for worse._

Birds overhead began to sing their sweet song as they stepped into the forge. The elf looked so haggard – a testament to five days of nonstop forging, and then an extra night laying enchantments on the swords. Dark bags, uncharacteristic of most elves, adorned her pale eyes. A table concealed by a length of white cloth revealed eight mounds, where the swords were hidden.

"Well, at least you are more punctual than your teachers," she noted.

As if on cue, a loud flapping sound outside heralded the arrival of the elder Riders. A few seconds later, Ash stepped into the forge, back ramrod straight. Serylda was right behind her, flattening her hair nervously.

"Forgive us for our tardiness, Rhunon-elda," she quipped with a smile. "Father has been quite preoccupied, so he sent us ahead to complete the ceremony with you."

Rhunon graced them with her customary scowl. "Well, so be it. Your father always has some excuse in place to send you in his place."

"Father is good at that," Ash agreed good-naturedly. "But we are senior Riders now, and we have all the right to oversee the awarding of the swords. We are their teachers, after all."

"Though it is customary for teachers to all be present, I suppose this is a custom that we can safely ignore during war," Serylda added.

Rhunon smiled. "Ah, I have long ago cast custom aside," she admitted. "And thanks to that, I have achieved the impossible! I have circumvented my oaths to make swords again, faster than I would normally do. And with hands that are not my own! And they are the finest I have ever made." She made a face. "I have used magic, that is true, but that is a minor qualm compared to what I have achieved. Behold!"

She removed the sheet covering the swords, revealing her latest work.

Rhunon did not waste the handful of hours that she had as intervals between the different Riders she worked with. Though Vanir heard of her amazing skill, he never expected her to work much, much faster than the lesser smiths of Du Weldenvarden. Eight blades, as magnificent as the ones that the Riders lost, lay on the table.

_I do not want to be biased, but it seems to me that her newest works are better than her older ones,_ Vanir noted with a small smile.

_Maybe you are right,_ countered Diamanda. _After all, the circumstances of their creation is quite unique._

Eight swords glittered on the table, shining like dragons' scales.

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><p>Melikir was perched wearily on his seat. The last few days were a blur, especially since he was challenged by Fadawar. He recalled Angela being summoned to clean their wounds with herbs and poultices. He recalled Orrin scoffing at him, and Brom scolding him.<p>

He recalled the tribes swearing their loyalty to him, and him staggering to his tent to recuperate. He was also aware that he sent Garrow on some mission or another with some men of Carvahall and some Varden veterans.

The Council of Elders stood before him, the four disagreeable members voicing their displeasure about Melikir's acceptance of Fadawar's challenge, Sabrae even outright speaking of the Wandering Tribes with disdain. Behind them, Brom, Faolin, and Angela glowered, talking quietly among themselves, while Jormundur stood to Melikir's right.

"And letting those wild, uneducated barbarians join our camp is most ill-advised," Umerth was saying as he addressed the circle. "They might harm the women of our camp!"

"Considering their help would be preposterous! We have managed so far without them!" added Falberd. "Now, if you just listen to me, my boy, I have quite a lot of strategies that would help us in this foolish siege that you are intent upon. But if you were truly to listen, I say that you summon the Riders back. We march to Uru'baen and get this done with immediately, be done with this childish foolishness of yours."

"You dare insult Lord Melikir's wisdom?" Jormundur asked, raising his eyebrow.

Umerth let out a long-suffering sigh. "And you may want to remember, Jormundur, that you are only part of the council in military matters."

"But the question still remains, and it is a valid one," Melikir finally said. He was getting tired of their prattling.

Elessari's hand flew to her dagger. "And you may wish to remember, boy, that you would not have risen to power without our help!"

"Help that is not freely given is no help at all," Brom said loudly, before launching back into conversation with Melikir's other true advisers.

Melikir drummed his fingers idly on the armrest of his seat. "Deflecting unwanted questions by changing the subject is a tactic that grows old as the days pass, my good men and women. Unfortunately, to those who have been repeatedly exposed to such strategies grow wiser. I may be young, but I am not a child, nor a fool."

He smiled at the stunned silence.

"You set me up to a position of power. Was this for you to gain more influence? Or to put a puppet that can dance to your whims?" He stood up. He was not so weak anymore, now that he had sufficient time to recuperate from his ordeal. "If you sought to create a puppet, I am afraid that your strings are no better than a spider's filmy web."

"You ingrateful bastard," Sabrae hissed. "We have given you the highest honors."

"The Council was made to provide sound advice to a current ruler – not as a method of seizing political power. You have devolved so much. It seems like the Council is no different from Galbatorix now."

More silence.

Faolin looked up from the scrolls he was reading with his companions. "I suppose, Melikir-vor, that there is no point for the council to exist if it does not serve its original purpose anymore."

"Most interesting," agreed Brom. "That the Council was made by me to be filled by people whom the current leader trusts – not treacherous snakes who are more interested in squandering power and playing games."

Sabrae's eyes bulged. "You can't dissolve the Council! Your empty threats will not work anymore, child!"

Melikir smiled. Finally, he was getting the opening that he sought for. "What about those that are not empty at all? In fact, I am quite willing to enact my threats. After all, this is not the original purpose of the Council, as Lord Brom has quite helpfully pointed out."

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><p>There was an air of anticipation in the forge as Serylda and Ash took their places beside Rhunon, who looked ready to explode with pride. Eragon was not just excited with the prospect of seeing the finished swords. He also wanted to see the small ceremony that was to take place.<p>

_Listen and watch well, young ones, for you shall witness what you shall be doing in the future,_ Aegar announced. _In the old days, such ceremonies were attended by Riders, dragons both bonded and not, family members, and anyone else in the vicinity._

Ash picked up the last sword that was forged. Ripples of stormy gray seemed to dance on the surface of the hilt when it moved slightly, the same color as Diamanda's eyes. Black-tinted brightsteel capped the end, and stylized stars of the same hue decorated the mouth. The crossguard itself was made of the same colored brightsteel, as was the small dragon clasp that kept the milky diamond in place. The hilt was made of hard, black wood, though.

"Vanir, Rider of Diamanda, step forward and kneel," Serylda said. Pride rang in her voice as the young elf did as he was told.

Ash unsheathed the blade, revealing a slender, graceful white sword. Its hue subtly took on a grayer hue when it shifted, playing on the colors of the Diamanda's scales and her eyes.

"For learning the lesson of accepting changes, you have grown into the Rider that you should be. You have gained an insight on the different races of Alagaesia by simply opening your heart to the truth that every one of them have their strengths and weaknesses," Serylda announced in her clear voice. Ash lightly tapped the broad side of the new sword on Vanir's shoulders before sheathing it, and handing it to him. "Henceforth, you shall be Vanir the Impartial, Rider of Diamanda. Rise and take your place among our ranks."

Vanir rose to his feet, a faint flush to his cheeks as he accepted his sword and stood behind the table.

_I'm betting ten crowns that he's about to explode in glee,_ Murtagh noted with a mental snicker.

_Do not be so mean,_ Aesyr reproached.

Vanir sighed. _You do know that I can hear that, right?_

Eragon's lip twitched. _Vanir my friend, they are very much aware._

Ash was already with the next sword – its black scabbard glinting, small specks of dark gray dancing on its surface with the slightest of movement. White-tinted brightsteel capped its tip, and formed spiral patterns at the mouth. Whitened brightsteel also formed the dragon clasp that held a jet-black diamond on the pommel. The hilt itself was of ivory-hued wood. The blade was revealed – a slightly thinner than usual piece that seemed best made for quickly drawing out. Like the hilt, small flecks of gray seemed to flash on the surface of the blade when it captured light.

Aesyr stepped forward, and Serylda began to speak once more. "For learning the lesson of being your true self, you have grown into the Rider you should be. You have cast aside any pretenses that hid the true you from the rest of the world, and you have began to face life as you should. Henceforth, you shall be Aesyr the Sincere, Rider of Sardonis."

Eragon smiled at his younger sister, who smiled back as she took her place beside Vanir.

The next sword that Ash took was of a rich golden hue, like solidified sunlight. Reddened brightsteel capped the scabbard, and formed a sunburst pattern on the mouth. The crossguard and ornate dragon clasp – which this time carried a pearly sunstone. The hilt was made of ivory-white wood. The sword itself was of standard appearance, though a little longer than usual. The golden hue of the blade seemed to deepen from edges to the center.

Nasuada stepped forward to take part in the ceremony. Serylda smiled proudly. "For learning to defy your limits, you have grown into the Rider that you should be. You have discovered the truth that sometimes rules need to be bent in order to make the most out of certain situations. Henceforth, you shall be Nasuada the Willful, Rider of Solaris."

The next sword revealed had a silver sheath glinted in different hues reminiscent of moonlight. Violet-tinted brightsteel capped its tip, decorated the mouth with an ornate pattern of crescents, and formed the crossguard and clasp for the moonstone on its pommel. Its grip was made of black wood. The sword itself was slender and light, apparently better-suited for thrusting. The blade was lighter in the center, steadily darkening at the edges and the tip.

Katrina was solemn when she knelt down, head bowed. Serylda nodded approvingly and proceeded with the ceremony. "For learning to face your future with confidence, you have grown into the Rider you should be. You have discovered the merits of putting your faith in the skills that you have been gifted it, and that you have honed. Henceforth, you shall be Katrina the Resolute, Rider of Luneria."

As Katrina smiled and took her place behind the table, Ash smiled and exchanged places with her sister. "I suppose you now know why it is important for the teachers to be the ones to preside over such ceremonies," she said with a chuckle.

Eragon nodded, stroking his chin. "Most interesting, Master. It seems like truly knowing who and what your pupil is would be an important part of being a teacher."

"Ah, that it is," Serylda agreed. She regarded the last half of the Riders still without their blades. "I know that you have not yet truly finished your lessons, but I am confident that you have actually learned the most important ones of all."

Roran stepped forward, head held high as Serylda beckoned him. Their elf teacher was holding his sword. The sheath glinted a light violet, like Askanir's neck and stomach scales. Silver-bright brightsteel capped it, and also formed patterns that resembled lightning on the mouth. The crossguard and the dragon clasp that encircled the pommel gem – an amethyst – were made of the same material, connected by a white wood hilt. The sword itself was thicker than usual, made for someone who preferred to slash and smash his way through enemies.

_Quite fitting,_ he told Murtagh, who snorted.

_As long as he doesn't use it on us, then I am fine with it._

_ Shut up, both of you,_ Roran growled.

Ash took over the next part of the ceremony. "For learning to be strong for the sake of those that need you, you have grown into the Rider that you shoud be. You have learned to draw upon your inner strength, and have lent the same stability to your allies and peers when needed. Henceforth, you shall be Roran the Resilient, Rider of Askanir."

The next blade had a scabbard with a green hue that shimmered faintly like a wet leaf that was hit by a ray of sunlight. Pale blue brightsteel capped its tip, and formed stylized vines on the mouth. A deeper blue steel comprised the crossguard and the small dragon clasp that held a lovely emerald, brought together by a hilt made of black wood. The sword itself was a richer emerald hue, iridiscent like the others and definitely beautiful.

Arya beamed beatifically as she stepped forward to take part in the ceremony. Eragon felt his stomach lurch in excitement and anticipation. Their teacher gave him a knowing look before she proceeded. "For learning to defy labels that were expected of you due to your status and race, you have grown into the Rider that you should be. You have discovered the power and joy that your own choice to be different is offering you. Henceforth, you shall be Arya the Distinctive, Rider of Firnen."

Serylda brandished the penultimate blade, the scabbard a dark, slightly menacing shade of red. Gold adorned its tip, and formed stylized flames on the mouth. The same material also formed its thick crossguard and the rearing dragon that encircled the ruby on its pommel. The sword itself was a richer ruby red, playing on the hues on Thorn's scales. A balanced blade, it was good both for thrusting and slashing.

Murtagh exchanged nervously elated glances with Eragon before stepping forward with a bow. "Masters," he said. "I am ready."

"As you should be," Serylda told him.

Ash cleared her throat, silencing them. "For learning the importance of protecting the ones you love in your own way, you have grown into the Rider that you should be. You have finally understood that you cannot deflect their pain all the time, but you still prioritize their safety. Henceforth, you shall be Murtagh the Devoted, Rider of Thorn."

Murtagh flushed as he accepted his sword and joined his comrades with a shy smile. _Ah, it is your turn, brother,_ he said in glee.

"Eragon, come here," Serylda coaxed with an uncharacteristic sweet smile.

Eragon knelt before Ash, eyes flitting to the sword that Serylda held. The light blue scabbard reminded him of the scales on Saphira's throat. It was tipped with deep green brightsteel, the same material adorning the mouth as stylized waves and snowflakes. The crossguard and ornate dragon that held the sapphire on the pommel in place was steel with a lighter shade of green. The sword itself was a vivid sapphire blue, an almost-twin of Murtagh's own weapon.

Ash began. "For learning to embrace pain, you have grown into the Rider that you should be. You have grown to accept that pain in all forms is inevitable, using it as strength in facing the future and inspiring those around you. Henceforth, you are Eragon the Valiant, Rider of Saphira."

Eragon accepted the blade with a smile on his face and a surge of strength. They were ready to face the future and fight for Alagaesia.

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><p><strong>I wanted to explain more on what the teachers said about the Riders, but it might be a bit fun to watch you guys figure out a few things xD<strong>

**Seriously, I am amazed by those who power read the series in a few days. I am such a slow reader, which also contributes to my even slower and attrocious updates. Erk.**

**The sword presentation ceremony was inspired partly by graduation from school. I graduated from college-level education in 2013 and I was kind of baffled as to why Eragon did not get even just a small ceremony in Eldest/Brisingr... I know it's war time, but hey! Just a few minutes of words wouldn't hurt.**

**More Melikir action next chapter! And a snarky Brom if I can throw it in.**

**Once more, DA fans, you may want to read my fic called From the Ground Up. This is the last unashamed advertising for my other fic, I promise. *blushes***

**Read and review, as always!**


	10. Sowing the Seeds of the Future

**Disclaimer: I don't own the IC. *cue tears***

**A shortish chapter, and more Melikir as requested! Take note of the random new characters here, we'll see more of them later.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 10: Sowing the Seeds of the Future<strong>

Melikir smiled grimly as the members of the Council expressed their incredulity. He let them exhaust their energies in their outburst. He exchanged knowing glances with Brom, whose mouth was twitching in amusement.

"You can't! We have stood as long as the Varden has! You can't just dissolve the Council! You will shake our very foundation," Umerth argued.

"We put you in your place! We can have you removed," growled Falberd.

"I tire of your prattling," Melikir told them. He supposed that they already had enough time to throw tantrums of great proportions. "I am not eliminating the Council, fools. I merely wish to reshape it, to bring to light its true purpose, as Lord Brom has quite patiently informed me about many times since his return."

"Ah, but the Varden is not his anymore, boy," Sabrae told him with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Brom nodded to Melikir, who grinned. The Council members looked taken aback. "True, Brom may not be the head of the Varden anymore, but some members do not serve the purposes that their positions have been created for."

Falbered glared at him. "The same can be said of you, boy!"

"But I am a rightful leader, as deemed by the people of the Varden. It wasn't just your choice. The people would have pushed me into my position even without your intervention." Melikir narrowed his eyes. "Rather a young fool than experienced snakes, in my opinion. Let it be known: I shall be dissolving the Council of Elders as it is known today. I shall reform and reshape it to meet our founder's vision. For if we forsake his vision, then we are not the Varden anymore. We would not deserve to be."

The next few hours were a blur, as he asked some of the Nighthawks to escort the Council members – former Council members – out of the pavilion. He began to send missives to the people about his new announcement. And to establish the fairness of his rule, he invited Nar Garzhvog and Narheim, a member of the dwarven contingent, to meet with him, alongside Jormundur, Brom, and Faolin to complete his new Council.

He needed to make sure that representatives of all races had a say if they were to work together.

Garzhvog initially refused, and Narheim was quick to follow. After all, the Varden was a primarily human organization. With Brom's help, the two were convinced to join, despite some objections from Jormundur regarding the wisdom of allowing an Urgal into Melikir's inner circle.

"Our conflicts with them were borne from misunderstanding," explained Melikir. "What better way for us to understand each other's races?"

He barely had time to rest after finalizing some details regarding his new Council. As he prepared to return to his tent, accompanied by Brom and Faolin, a runner dashed right into the pavilion, sweaty and panting. "L-Lord Melikir," Jarsha began. "Lord Herion arrives with his contingent. King Orrin requests your presence."

So the lord of Lithgow arrives.

Melikir nodded to the boy. "Very well. Tell him that I shall be joining them soon." Jarsha bowed and left.

"Best not to let him know that Marian's son is one of your sworn vassals," Brom began, patting down his pale blue cloak. "Nor that Helene's daughter is the dragon-marked child in Aberon."

Melikir regarded his new advisor thoughtfully. "Aye, he might not take it well."

At the southeastern edge of the encampment, King Orrin and his honor guard were waiting for the small army that marched toward them, flying the white and violet banners of the Lord of Lithgow. The major Surdan city was ruled by men descended from the sole survivors of Galbatorix's massacre of the royal family a century ago.

Lord Herion himself rode at the head of the cavalry, gleaming spear in hand. His long, shaggy, tawny hair was reminiscent of a lion. His violet eyes, a long-standing mark of ruling kings, glittered unreadably as he regarded Orrin and Melikir. He dismounted as the gap closed, and bowed. "King Orrin, it has been long."

"I was wondering when you would arrive," muttered Orrin. "The other lords arrived weeks ago."

"Alas, matters of the city took precedence," Herion replied lightly. "I trust all is well?"

"Well enough that we were almost killed before the dwarves arrived to help us."

Herion smiled, and beckoned to one of the horsemen, who dismounted and raised his helm. The face of a boy of the same age as the Riders peered at him, delicate face and violet eyes both looking unsure. Fair hair peeked from beneath the raised visor as he bowed. "King Orrin, Lord Melikir, truly, it is an honor," he murmured.

"This is my only child and heir, Claus," the Lord said proudly.

"Well met, lad," Orrin began. "It is good that you have arrived. The last of our spies have been pulled out of Dras Leona weeks ago, and apparently they have important documents for us. Come, you must be tired. We shall show you your portion of the camp so you may set up and rest."

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><p>Eragon still marvelled at his new blade, the way it glinted and reminded him of the sharp icicles that formed on porches in Carvahall during winter. His throat tightened as he thought of home. <em>It isn't like it still stands, does it?<em>

_You can rebuild,_ Saphira said. _Though it will never be the same, the true spirit of Carvahall shall linger. And it will be strengthened by the heroism of the entire village._

"Your blades need names," Rhunon said, jolting Eragon out of his pondering. "I cannot mark the blade and scabbard if you do not, am I correct?"

"Think hard and think well," Serylda advised. "For your blades shall bear their names for all eternity, and shall be written down beside your deeds in history."

"We can't just invent random names, then," Murtagh muttered. He cast Thorn a sly look. "It would be fun waving a sword named Sheepbiter around."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Now, maybe, but not in five centuries, my friend."

"I could name this Hope," Eragon mused.

_What? You want to stab Galbatorix with Hope? _Saphira asked.

Roran snorted. "I like the sound of that."

Vanir shook his head at them as he stepped forward, presenting his sword to Rhunon. "Like the pale stars that guide in the night, I name it Evarin." As if on cue, the blade began to glitter faintly, like the light of many small stars were embedded on its surface. Vanir frowned at it for a few seconds, and it stopped.

"Curious." Rhunon looked expectantly at the other Riders. "Go on," she said.

Eragon was still pondering on his sword name when Aesyr named hers Myrkir – darkness. It seemed to ripple with shadows as it did, though Eragon barely noticed it. Nasuada's sword – Solus, or Sun – and Katrina's sword – Manen, or moon – both glowed faintly when their names were mentioned, like frozen rays of the sun and beams of the moon that they were named for. Rhunon seemed more and more amazed by what she was seeing.

Arya's blade, Deloi, did not elicit some reaction at first, but when she mentioned its name after tapping the tip of the sword to the floor, the ground seemed to rumble lightly. Arya smiled, smug. When Roran named his Kveykva, the lightning that it was named for danced on the blade's length, surprising him and making him drop the sword.

Rhunon glared at him. "If I did not cast wards against heat and damage, you would have ruined your sword already. Do not drop the sword again, lad, or I shall make you use your hammer instead."

Roran flushed and seemed to shrink. "Forgive me, Rhunon-elda."

Murtagh glanced at him with a small grin when he raised his sword. "I name thee Istalri!" Flame was a fitting name, as the sword burst into it when Murtagh named it loud and clear. The Rider glared at the sword, and the fire vanished. "Odd."

"Most curious, I must say," Ash said with a small frown. "We shall have time to study your swords once we reach the Varden. And I suppose we must let Rhunon-elda know of our findings once we have made a conclusion."

"And you must not speak to Rhunon-elda like she is not here," the blacksmith growled. She turned to Eragon. "And you, boy? What shall you name your blade?"

Eragon frowned at his sword, wondering what he would name it. Calling it Carvahall would be preposterous, no matter how much the sword reminded him of winter back home. He smiled as he brandished the sword. "I name it Vorstnar." Frost. It seemed fitting, and the sword seemed to think so too, as a layer of frost immediately appeared on its surface. It drained his energy lightly but steadily, like a minor spell. He quickly ended the magic.

"This truly is something curious. I have never heard of swords behaving that way. I do not think that they consciously used magic," mused Ash. She watched with a small smile as Rhunon uttered the spells to mark the swords and scabbards with the matching glyphs.

Serylda caught Rhunon with her sharp eyes. "Rhunon-elda, do you have any helpful speculations regarding the nature of these blades?"

"Oh, believe me, girl, I have a lot," Rhunon muttered darkly. She held her hand out for the nearest Rider – Roran. "May I?"

Roran nodded, and handed the sword to her reverently. Eragon found himself leaning forward as the smith brandished the sword. "Kveykva!" The sword seemed to shimmer, but nothing happened. She scowled and handed the sword back to Roran briskly.

Ash shook her head. "I did not even feel any glimmer of magic."

"No, nothing happened," Rhunon agreed. "It may be because the owners were involved with the forging. It may have let them imbue their blades with a portion of their personality. It could potentially attune the sword to their wishes. Or they may have discovered the true name of the swords. Oh, both occuring would also be possibilities. But they have chosen good names for their swords."

* * *

><p>Armor. Garrow was not sure that he would ever grow accustomed to wearing it. He felt too old to be armed and dangerous like this, but he had to do something to help their new hosts. He was just glad that the boys would not see him like this, marching to the front line. It would be much harder to leave the camp, and any semblance of security, behind.<p>

Father's sword and favored ax strapped to his belt, he retrieved his shield and spear – nothing like the flimsy makeshift weapons they wielded before. These were the real things, used for warfare. He donned his cloak, shouldered his pack, and headed out of his tent, which Horst promised he would look cloak rippled in the semi-darkness of breaking dawn. His breath misted in the cold as he headed for the command pavilion, where he promised to meet Melikir.

No one stirred as he padded past tents. His squad was not to rise for another hour, and there he was, invited to an audience with their leader.

Melikir waited for him as promised, seated as always at the head of the war table. Brom and Faolin flanked him, as always. The boy was barely older than Garrow's sons, but he looked as weary as men twice or thrice his age would be. "Ah, Garrow, it is good to see you," he began. "You must be wondering why I summoned you here."

"It is a matter of curiosity, my Lord," Garrow admitted.

Melikir smiled. "Information is a powerful ally, and a dangerous foe. You need not worry, for this tent is well-guarded from spying ears." He leaned forward, a curious look in his odd gold eyes. "I have heard word that the name of your wife was Marian."

Garrow raised an eyebrow. "A most trivial information, my Lord, but aye. She died ten years ago. There was nothing anyone could do."

Brom nodded grimly. "Had I any talent in the healing arts, something could have been done to save her."

The old twinge of pain erupted within Garrow, but he quickly smothered it. What was done was done, and he told them the same thing. Though he still missed his wife. That was not negotiable.

"I have reason to believe that Marian had arrived from Surda with her mother five years prior to your marriage, if my computations are correct," Melikir continued. "And her mother's name; was it Elemere?"

Garrow wondered what they were trying to get to, but he decided to play along. He remembered Marian's auburn hair, a rare sight in the village, as she and her mother, both well-dressed if a little ragged, arrived with the traders during one particularly cold winter. It was two years since Selena departed for the south. "Yes, her mother, Elemere, was Surdan. Or so she said. They did not fit in immediately, though they eventually found work as seamstresses."

"If these are the same Marian and Elemere that we know…" Melikir began, looking at him with solemn eyes. "Then she has the eyes of kings."

When Garrow voiced out his confusion, Faolin shook his head at his companions. "He may not have heard of it," he chided. He turned toward Garrow. "Deftblade, all kings of Alagaesia and those of their blood have violet eyes. Like your wife and son. Like your potential brother-in-law, Lord Herion of Lithgow. And the dragon-marked child, Elva." He paused. "Your son might potentially succeed the throne, should we overthrow Galbatorix."

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><p>Mounting Askanir after belting on Kveykva, Roran couldn't smother the sense of excitement within him. He beamed as wide as he could as they soared toward the Crags of Tel'nair, where they would meet with their teachers together for the last time before marching into war. Glaedr was curled up calmly, and the dragons joined him while Ash and Serylda departed for their own huts.<p>

Silence veiled the bright clearing.

_I wish I could feel such peace again before war breaks out,_ Roran mused. _I do not think that it would be possible, though._

_ We cannot fight the inevitable,_ Askanir replied. _War will be waged with fire and blood. And we will be at the frontlines. I will expect nothing else._

Oromis emerged from his hut, resplendent in golden scale armor. A diamond-shaped shield was slung across his back, and he hend a helm with his left arm. Naegling, his slender sword, gleamed by his hip. "Ah, you all seem prepared," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "We shall wait for my daughters, and then we shall present you with your final gifts."

Ash was the next to arrive, clad in midnight-blue armor. Her two mismatched blades were slung across her back, ready to be whipped out should trouble arise. She was holding a small box on one hand. She nodded to the Riders and smiled. "Serylda will be arriving any time soon."

As if on cue, Serylda emerged from her hut, wearing bloodred armor. She was carrying a big box with her hands, golden hair rippling in the wind. "Ah, it seems like you were all waiting for me."

"That we were," agreed Ash.

Oromis mentioned for Serylda to set her box on the ground, and took the smaller box from Ash's hand. He opened it carefully. Gleaming jeweled pendants set in a dragon-shaped clasp – Roran noted that they resembled Rhunon's designs on the sword pommels – met the Riders' eyes. Like the gems on their belts, they perfectly matched the dragons' colors. "The Dragon Hearts – pendants of the Elders that were recently surrendered to us by a northern House. These were believed lost since Anurin's death."

"They were simply hidden," Ash said, making a face. "Apparently, Lord Riolthos thought that they should be safeguarded, instead of giving them to their rightful owners. You."

"Peace, daughter. What is done is done," Oromis said, handing them to the Riders. "On another note, I must let you in on a secret. Now that you are aware of the Eldunarya, I confess that we managed to save nine of them during the Fall. I know that they will not be enough to truly help you in defeating Galbatorix, but trust that you will use them well in your quest."

Serylda opened the larger box. She brought out a round object about a foot in diameter, like a giant orange jewel a little odd in shape and size. It glowed brightly, throbbing, dancing, and swirling within the Eldunari. It was alive. "This is Halfath, dragon of Meridden. She has willingly let us bestow you with her being." She handed the Eldunari to Aesyr, who held to it reverently. The young Rider's eyes widened, as if overwhelmed by the dragon's presence.

"Here." Oromis handed her a cloth sack, where she placed the Eldunari in. He handed the other Riders their own. "So that you will not drown in the thoughts and feelings of your new allies. There will be time for acquaintance later."

Next was a pale pink Eldunari, of Tear, dragon of Lauriel, which went to Katrina. Then there was Andras, gray dragon of Yevan, who was entrusted to Vanir. A yellow Eldunari – that of Urien, dragon of Selmar, was gladly received by Nasuada. A swirling lilac Eldunari that belonged to Kitara, dragon of Polvar, was entrusted to Arya. Eragon and Murtagh received twin Eldunarya, black and white pieces owned by wild dragons Vervada and Naneldin, mother of their own dragons.

Last was a deep brown Eldunari, which Roran received, aware that it belonged to another wild dragon, Brynnan, whose awareness washed over him briefly as he slipped the dragon's heart of hearts into his cloth sack.

The ninth Eldunari was white, and Serylda refused to part with it. "It is Dagnar's. My mother's dragon."

Curiously, Ash did not receive her own Eldunari, but she exchanged glances with her father.

After exchanging a few more words, Roran mounted Askanir once more. He shared his discomfort and sorrow with his dragon. _I have an odd feeling that this is the last time that we will all be together._

Askanir agreed. _It pains me to admit this, but I think you are right._

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><p><strong>Another rushed chapter. I don't like the way it turned out, but it will have to do.<strong>

**Just so you guys know, the Riders will utilize their swords' powers in the next battles. And we'll be meeting some more OC's soon! XD**

**I wasn't really aware that the sword scene in the previous chapter was reminiscent of Narnia... I haven't touched anything from the series but the third film in the past three years. And the swords' appearances were played with, since I wanted to deviate a little from the books.**

**Flame and frost just felt fitting for me. And red is my favorite color, which is partly why I also love Murtagh's sword the most. Though blue, black, and violet are all close behind.**

**We'll meet the dragons behind the Eldunarya next chapter. And I guess you guys know Oromis' and Ash' "little secret."**


	11. A Leap into Open Flames

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! *Flies off with her rainbow dragon***

**Chapter 11: A Leap into Open Flames**

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><p>The strong breeze flattened the grass, which rippled lazily in the heat of a lovely summer morn. The Riders were half a day's ride away from the Varden's encampment, the Beor mountains easily in view to the south as they steadily flew east. Arya smiled, imagining how lovely Alagaesia would be once the war is won.<p>

_We could make some kind of highway to link major cities between the races,_ she told Firnen. _We could build new cities where everyone from all races could live in and trade._

_ As long as there is enough food for me, I will follow you anywhere, little pointy-ears,_ Firnen replied in amusement.

Arya chuckled. Her thoughts vaguely wandered to Eragon, who veered toward the Beors with Murtagh and their dragons earlier that day. She pushed back a stray lock of dark hair from her face. _Do you think that the new dwarf king shall be sympathetic to our cause?_

_ Of course,_ Firnen said. _Dwarves are the oddest two-legs I have ever seen, but I do not think that they will be fools._

Arya flicked her mind to Kitara, whom she had been slowly learning to communicate with over the past two days. _Have you met dwarves during your time?_

Kitara's thoughts stirred. _It has been long, little one. So long. But I remember the small two-legs who once roamed the mountains of the south. The Beors, as I recall._

_ Yes, they are still there,_ agreed Arya. _Two of our friends have departed to attend the election of their new king._ Worry gnawed at her. She remembered Az Sweldn rak Anhuin, and their vehement dislike of dragons and Riders.

Kitara pondered on those words. Finally, she said, _Dwarves as you call them have always been odd people. They are good at heart, but their passions are sometimes ill-used. My sire was killed by a dwarf who blamed him for the losses his… clan… sustained during a skirmish between our races. But another dwarf saved my Rider when he was a child._

By the time they reached the Varden's camp, it seemed larger than before. Sentries pointed toward them, apparently recognizing them – and mistaking Aegar and Brand for Saphira and Thorn, amusingly enough. Arya's lips quirked into a smile as their masters donned their helms. Together, the Riders descended upon a field in the middle of the camp that was set aside for the dragons' ease.

Melikir was at the head of the group that welcomed them. With a jolt, Arya noted the bandages that were displayed on his forearms. The young leader carried them with the pride of well-earned wounds. He stared questioningly at the two massive ancient dragons, though thankfully he did not comment.

"Greetings, Riders," he said with a weary smile.

"Melikir-vor," Arya said with a smile. "We, the Rider Elders, salute you. Eragon and Murtagh have departed for Tronjheim, as you have asked of them before we departed for Ellesmera."

Behind Melikir were Angela, Brom, and Faolin, who were accompanied by the thirteen spellcasters sent by Islanzadi. Blodhgarm watched them with his unsettling eyes. Arya looked away as she dismounted Firnen with one smooth movement.

Melikir's eyes widened as Ash and Serylda revealed their faces, and he bowed. "Greetings and salutations, Riders."

"May the stars watch over you, Melikir-vodhr," Ash initiated, being the elder of the two masters. "I am Ash, Rider of Brand, of House Thrandurin, and this is my half-sister, Serylda, Rider of Aegar."

"Serylda, who can introduce herself well enough, thank you very much." Serylda smiled, though.

Melikir watched them with wide eyes. "Riders… of old… it is truly an honor to meet you. When it was made known that the Riders would be tutored in Ellesmera, I have assumed as much."

Serylda raised her eyebrows. "That's it? No yelling? No questioning? I at least expected you to demand answers as to why we have never revealed ourselves, Melikir-vodhr."

Ash smiled. "Forgive my sister. Though it is assumed that I am the outspoken one, she has recently been highly influenced by our smith in Ellesmera's sharp tongue."

Melikir smiled, faintly bemused. "No offense taken," he said, apparently not knowing how to deal them. "However, I extend my sincere hospitality to you, and your dragons. Come, you must be tired from your travels. I have already ordered a meal to be prepared in my pavilion, and we may also talk there."

As the group headed for their destination, Arya fell behind to talk to Faolin. "How do things fare in here, brother?" she asked in the ancient language. "And what happened to Melikir's arms? Why has no one healed them?"

"Things are going well," Faolin said with a smile. "We are receiving reinforcements every week, and we expect a caravan of supplies from Dras Leona any day now. As for Melikir, he has gone through the Trial of the Long Knives. It is not my place to explain it to you, though. You may want to ask Nasuada if you wish to know more."

"Maybe I will," Arya agreed. "To be bandaged so thickly means that those wounds are not superficial."

Faolin nodded and glanced at the sword hanging from his sister's hip. "Ah, that is a lovely blade. May I?"

Arya nodded and unsheathed Deloi, handing it to her brother. "Ah, yes. We helped Rhunon-elda forge our swords. It was quite a task, but I think the results were worth it."

"Deloi. A fitting name for such a sword that reminds me of home, and of moss-covered earth after the rain." Faolin's green eyes turned wistful, and he returned the sword to his sister. He sighed. "It is a lovely and dangerous blade."

Arya grinned. "Of course. Is your sister not lovely and dangerous?"

"You think to much of yourself." Faolin laughed – a clear, musical sound that was not as restrained as other elves'. That was one thing that Arya loved about her brother. "But very well, you are lovely and dangerous, my beloved sister."

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><p>Nasuada listened to her brother recounting the Trial of the Long Knives that he underwent against Fadawar with awe. <em>I never knew that my brother had nerves of steel,<em> she mused in amazement.

Solaris agreed. _He is quite an amazing creature, though I do not understand why you must test leaders that way._

Nasuada rolled her eyes. _Men do. You know how they are._

Beside her, Vanir sipped his spiced wine thoughtfully. "Is this a custom amongst all humans? It is quite intriguing, a test to see who can outlast another when it comes to enduring pain. I have not read of anything such as this at home."

"It is not a common custom," explained Melikir. "Mostly, it is practiced by members of the Wandering Tribes. My family is descended from them, though you may find members throughout Surda, and the city of Bellatona."

"Still, those wounds are horrific," the elf continued. "Your will and endurance truly is amazing, Melikir-vodhr."

Melikir smiled and thanked him, sipping his own wine slowly as he regarded the Riders and his newly-formed Council of Elders. His tale regarding its formation was also quite an amazing – and amusing – one. Nasuada would have traded half the money in her pockets to see the faces of the four fools that her brother maneuvered out of their positions.

"Now," he said with a solemn look. "We have a lot to do before we begin the siege. It is a given that the twins might stay in the Beors for some time, and the rest of you will be needed there once the new king has been chosen."

"We cannot leave the Varden undefended again," argued Roran.

Ash laughed. "Ah, do not be so foolish. You eight are now the elders. We are merely your teachers – consider us your guides and advisors. We will stay here to defend the Varden while you go and attend the crowning of the new dwarf king. It is your duty as Elders to watch over the proceedings and know who you will be working with in the future."

A surge of excitement awakened in Nasuada. She truly was an Elder. Ash and Serylda were still their teachers and advisors, but they still had the last word. She felt honored – but afraid. The entire future of the Riders rested in the shoulders of eight children.

Two of which might be hurtling toward danger. It wasn't just because of what she felt for Murtagh, though that was the main reason. Eragon was also like a brother to her. She wished that the nervous flutter of fear within her was not an omen of what would come. She let herself breathe deeply as she heard her brother speak again.

"In the meantime, we will need three of you to head north and join the escort of the supply caravan that will be arriving here from Dras Leona. Garrow's squad is already there, but it would be reassuring if I had at least two of you for backup."

Suddenly feeling reckless, Nasuada slammed her hand on the table. If Murtagh was flying into danger, then why not her? "I'll join," she said quickly.

"If you are coming then I shall join you," Arya added quickly.

Ash gave them knowing looks and smiled. "I am sure that you would be quite averse to the idea of letting your men have all the adventure," she commented. She turned to Melikir. "Though it is true that we are… older… than every living person in this pavilion, but you are the leader of the Varden. Our skills and knowledge are at your command. I will accompany these two."

Melikir nodded. "The team were to intercept the caravan in the middle of the plains to avoid being seen by any roaming soldiers. They have also been instructed to take out any members of the army that they may encounter."

"I have reason to believe that someone might be trailing the caravan, waiting to intercept it," Brom added worriedly. He stared at his goblet thoughtfully. "It would be better if you catch up to them, even if it means overtaking our men."

"Then we will need only to rest tonight," announced Nasuada. She was weary from traveling – and forging her new blade – but she wanted to help, too. It would be better than to sit around. "From here to Dras Leona, it would just take a few hours of flight."

Ash nodded and bit into her dry slice of bread. "We might need to walk for a few miles, though. Riding our dragons right above them might startle them – especially if they're not aware of us."

Melikir smiled faintly, looking more like the young man that he was supposed to be. "Aye, that is a good choice. They have only heard of the Riders in letters I have sent to them. Very well, do what you must."

* * *

><p>The twin Riders veered toward Bregan hold, following the directions provided to them by a pair of dwarves camped outside the entrance to Farthen Dur and Tronjheim. The fresh mountain air awakened Murtagh, making him more aware of his surroundings. He was feeling more and more at home with nature.<p>

That didn't feel right. He was no elf.

They landed a safe distance from a path leading to the hold. "This looks about right," he said, trusting his instincts. He learned to follow what they said about their surroundings more and more as the days went on. The trees told him that they were near, so near their destination.

"You have a feeling. Am I correct?" Eragon asked with a small tilt of his lips. "Very well, elder brother, lead on."

Saphira dipped her head, eyeing the two protectively. _Are you sure that the two of you need to go on alone? We can accompany you if you wish._

_ Thank you for your concern,_ Murtagh began, _but this is a matter among the dwarves. They have insisted that we only take ourselves, as though we are bonded, you are not of Durgrimst Ingeitum._

_ You know that the two of you are being foolish,_ muttered Thorn.

_And you know that we can all hear you,_Eragon told him with a cheeky smile. _You are going to stay close, are you not? It would be most reassuring. Believe me, we would like to bring the two of you with us to Bregan Hold, but there is no use causing panic._

The red dragon turned to Murtagh. _Very well. You shall both be taking care. If either of you is harmed, I will be biting you. Painfully._

_ Son of mine, there is no need for you to be so harsh,_ Livia said, stirring from the Eldunari in Murtagh's pack. _Though we have no bodies to call ours anymore, Vervada and I shall make sure that no harm shall come to your Riders._

_ Very well… mother._ Though they have been traveling with the Eldunarya for days already, Thorn still could not reconcile himself to the fact that he had a chance to meet his mother.

_Stay close, both of you,_ added Vervada. _We shall be vigilant, and so must you._

_ Yes, mother, _Saphira said, apparently annoyed, though obviously pleased.

Eragon caught Murtagh's eye and grinned. He motioned toward the path. "Shall we, then?"

Murtagh nodded, mirroring his twin's ear-splitting smile. "Of course, my dear brother."

Together, they pushed their way through the brush. Eragon, with the reflexes of an elf, still stumbled and cursed as he tripped on roots and his face smacked against branches. Murtagh felt in tune with the trees, knowing when and how to dodge as if by instinct. He wondered if it would also increase his hunting skills… and made him think longingly of his hunting trips to the spine with his brother and cousin. It felt like lifetimes ago.

A trio of tiny dwarf children playing on the path froze, watching the twins with wary round-cheeked faces. The stick that they were throwing to each other lay forgotten in the mdidle of their small circle. "Do you think they will understand us?" Eragon muttered.

"Watch me." Murtagh stepped forward. "Nosu eyddr ai Shur'tugal." The children stared at him blankly. "Shur'tugal? Dragon Rider?" More silence and blank stares. He removed his glove and held out his hand. "Argetlam?"

The children's eyes brightened, their mouths falling open in amazement. "Argetlam!" they cried out in glee, running and throwing themselves at him with a quick hug, before doing the same to Eragon.

They tugged the brothers' hands, talking continuously in Dwarvish in glee. They led the brothers forward, and Murtagh felt himself grinning. He felt so at home. Someday he would love to have his own children. Maybe a baker's dozen or so of them. He wouldn't mind lovely children with Nasuada's lovely skin and his rust brown hair.

Watching a pair of the children – girls, with those long, pale braids – staring at him imploringly, he took them in his arms. Maybe he wouldn't mind having twins of his own someday. Eragon laughed and took the other child in his arms. With much sweet laughter of children and Riders both in the air, they made their way to Bregan Hold, and their foster family.

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><p><strong>A quiet chapter that I forgot to upload because I had too much fun watching the Pope's arrival in Manila on TV. I wish I were there! The crowd was amazing too.<strong>

**I'm glad that you guys enjoyed and liked the previous chapter! I was actually quite surprised that someone wasn't so pleased with the naming when I did mention Eragon and Murtagh being Ice and Fire since Bloodkin xD Oh well, we can't please everyone!**

**Just a refresher, I might have described the Carvahall boys with rust brown hair in earlier chapters or books.**

**Just saw the trailer for the live-action Cinderella film by Disney, and I was quite surprised to learn that the Prince is none other than Robb Stark. Good to see him alive and well again! XD**

**"When you lose this capacity to dream, you lose capacity to love." **  
><strong>-Pope Francis, just a few seconds before I post this.<strong>

**Read and review as always, you guys! Have a lovely weekend.**


	12. Surprises Big and Small

**Disclaimer: I don't own everyone and everything but my OC's. Erk.**

**I'm not sure if anyone missed Garrow's POV from Bloodlines, so here he is! He won't be having much parts anymore, but he'll be in the picture every now and then. Smashing enemies and stuff is always fun, even if he thinks he's too old for it.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: Surprises Big and Small<strong>

Garrow followed his group of thirty-strong men to the northwest, maneuvering their horses through some rocky outcrops to reach the plains leading to Dras-Leona. Though all were heavily armed and hardened warriors, he felt a little conscious of the fact that at least a third of them were barely more than children. The quiet wind brushed against his face as he reminded himself that age does not matter in war – only experience.

He observed the men he was traveling with, most armed with bows and swords. Some chose spears, maces, and hammers, though. He himself was armed with his ax.

Their leader, Martlad Redbeard – a deposed earl, apparently – strode toward him. The man was the closest in age to him, his fiery beard now threaded with the silver of the winters he already witnessed. "Garrow," he said in his rough, harsh accent. "This is your first campaign, isn't it?" The man was strict, but good in his own way. "We are about to march out into the open. The caravan may just be a few hours, if not minutes away. Remember what we have talked about."

Garrow saluted. He followed the troops through the ridge and descended down a path – into a horrendous scene. The caravan was on fire, people lying in pools of their own blood, and three children were scrambling toward them, probably of the same age as the Riders themselves. Bandits were riding toward them with the confident ease of people knowing that their foes would not stand a chance against them. At least a hundred of them were making their way toward the survivors.

"Help the survivors," shouted Martland. He motioned for the squad to follow him and intercept the bandits. "Carn!"

Carn, a thin-faced, droopy-eyed man, looked up nervously. He was a young man of twenty winters or so, not exactly a good spellcaster but he excelled at breaking into people's minds. He and Garrow got along well, despite their differences in age.

Garrow dug his knees into the horse's flank, and the steed – named Coaldust by Murtagh – galloped toward the bandits. He brandished his ax and swung it as faced a man garbed in mismatched armor. With a cry, he swung his weapon, shaft catching the man by the throat and knocking him off his rearing warhorse with a gurgle.

He was aware that they were sorely outnumbered. And he knew that the people in the caravan were all armed veterans too. So how skilled exactly were the bandits to kill around fifty veterans?

The pair of men beside Martland were the first to fall. Ulhart, his second, rode to his rescue while Carn scowled and lobbed a small fireball to the enemy's left flank. He sagged forward on his saddle, and Garrow let his horse charge toward the foes that were about to overwhelm him. He knew that it would be futile in the end. They terribly outnumbered.

At least they would be buying time for the young ones.

He lost himself into the battle, swinging his ax, blocking with his shield, maneuvering and weaving Coaldust through the sea of battling people. He was starting to tire by the time he felled three consecutivebandits and probably injured another five. He truly was getting too old for this.

Whenever two bandits fell, three took their places, brandishing an odd assortment of weapons. Garrow wasn't as fast as he was when he was younger, but years of laboring in his farm gave him strength. He pushed one of them away with his shield, and swung his ax to slit another one's throat. There was a choking gasp, the man fighting beside him fell, and six more bandits converged upon him.

With a cry, one of the children behind them pointed to the southeren sky. A few seconds later, it was punctuated by a dragon's roar, the creature shadowing them. The fighting stopped as men looked up.

A green dragon soared above them, roaring again. Garrow felt a presence press against his mind. _Ah, you live, old one,_ Firnen said in approval. _Do not fear._

There was another roar – and it did not come from the majestic green beast. A pair of dragons joined him, circling the sky. One was the blinding molten gold of Solaris, meaning that Melikir had sent his own sister to aid them. But the third dragon was an unfamiliar dragon of a deeper blue than Saphira – and three times larger than her.

The dragons began to descend, and the bandits screamed as they realized who exactly were going to die.

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><p>The children who led Murtagh and Eragon to Bregan Hold signalled for them to wait as they reached to courtyard, and ran inside the hold, shouting "Argetlam!" as they ran in. The massive red stone building was quiet for a while, aside from the children's shouts of excitement.<p>

How good it would be to feel like a child again, free of worries and burdens.

Dwarves swarmed out, led by Orik, who was garbed in robes of deep red, which seemed to flicker in fire as he moved. "Brothers," he said warmly with a smile.

Hrothgar followed him, dressed in clothing of slate gray. "Greetings, young Riders. Welcome to Bregan Hold, home of our clan."

"We are honored to step inside your halls, and to be a part of Ingeitum," Eragon said with a small bow and a smile.

The dwarves began to cheer loudly, though they kept a respectable distance. The children who led the Riders to the hold waved, and the brothers waved back. The crowd went wild with glee. Orik regarded his foster brothers with sparkling eyes. "Ah, mine people already love you!"

"I shall call for Hvedra and make sure that the servants have readied your baths, mine sons," Hrothgar continued with glee. "I shall leave the three of you to talk and be acquainted with the hold."

With a swish of their dark traveling clothes, the brothers followed Orik around the hold, where their foster brother pointed at the different outbuildings – homes for servants and warriors, forges, stables, and a lovely church for Morgothal, dwarven god of fire, and patron of the smiths.

"It would mean a lot to us if we could visit the church," Murtagh said quietly. His mind began to run with his thoughts. Maybe Morgothal had a hand in the creation of the Riders' swords, and the stroke of inspiration for his sword's name. "I would like to pay my respects to Morgothal, for I believe he has been watching over us."

Orik smiled. "That he should. Ingeitum has always had a special place for Morgothal in their hearts, and Morgothal has also guided us for choosing him as our patron."

He led them down the path, into the redstone church decorated by delicate spires, golden scrollworks, and gems. The massive oak doors were open, and sunlight filtered into the church, lighting up the carefully painted murals of a dwarf god working the forges. Some of the paintings depicted Morgothal with his beloved brother, Urur.

Seats were carefully lined in two columns, made of polished obsidian and inlaid with gold and rubies. A priest in resplendent golden robes tended to the altar, which once again depicted Morgothal. He saw the new arrivals and headed for them with a proud grace.

The priest conversed with Orik in Dwarvish, and he gave the two Riders a curious glance. Then, he approached them and bowed quickly. "Shadeslayers," he said in a soft voice that sounded a little odd in his harsh accent. "Welcome to our halls. I am Almerth, of Durgrimst Quan. I was…" He exchanged a few words with Orik as he fumbled with how to translate some words to the common tongue. "I was sent here from Celbediel to look after the church of Morgothal. Grimstborith Orik told me that you wished to see our humble church?"

Murtagh bowed. "We have come to pay our respects to Morgothal, and offer him our thanks."

"By all means, Argetlam, go ahead."

* * *

><p>While the survivors of the Varden's warriors gathered the remains of the bandits for the dragons to burn, Arya and Nasuada introduced Ash to Martland's forces and proceeded to heal the injured survivors.<p>

Then, they went to the three survivors of the caravan, who were quietly watching the corpses lined a small distance from the wagons. Arya was amazed by how young they were – probably as old as Aesyr and Vanir. The lone male was tall and sturdily built, a sword strapped across his back. His cheek was nicked from a sword wound, though he refused healing. His closely-cropped hair was a reddish gold hue that glinted with a fiery glint in the light of the sun.

What bothered Arya the most were his violet eyes – the eyes of kings that so few now possessed.

"Argetlam," he said in a deep voice. "Thank you for saving us."

"I am sorry for your loss," she told him. "You knew the people there, did you not?"

"Aye, one of them was my mother." His voice had the quality of one who was simply trying to hold himself together despite the pain. "Forgive me, Rider, I did not wish to bother you with my prattling."

"You were not bothering me," Arya replied. "I know how you feel. I lost my father to the Forsworn shortly after my tenth name day. And enough with calling me Rider. My name is Arya."

"And I am Astrid – which I know is a woman's name," the boy replied. "They deserve to be buried with dignity."

"And they shall have it," Ash said, joining with Nasuada. "My condolences, lad. Do not fear. You three will be safe with us."

The other two survivors approached them, clad in the same ragged traveling clothes. They both had curly red hair, and looked similar enough to pass as relatives. One had sharper vulpine features with narrow blue eyes. The other one was shorter, with gentler features, though her tilted eyes were decidedly cat-like.

"Ah, let me introduce my friends," Astrid said. "This is Hilde," he began, motioning to the blue-eyed girl. Then, he turned to the green-eyed one. "And this is Bjorne. And do not worry, Rider Arya, the two of us get the comments a lot for me having a feminine name, and her having a masculine name."

"And I can speak for myself, thank you very much," Bjorne said with a roll of her eyes. She bowed to Arya. "Ah, I am pleased to meet you, Argetlam. I believe the three of us must talk with you and your fellow Riders regarding the reason why we believe that the Empire sent those bandits after us."

Arya raised an eyebrow. "Galbatorix sent those after you?"

"Well, that is the general idea," Hilde said, sounding business-like. "There is an unharmed wagon that I found after the battle. Come, Riders."

Arya noted the way that Bjorne and Astrid exchanged looks as they followed her. She felt Ash frown lightly as she studied the newcomers. "What do you think is this about?" she asked. "Their minds are quite well-guarded."

"Most people in the Varden learn early," Nasuada explained. She crossed her arms as they clambered up a red and blue wagon.

Inside, the three were setting a pack on a table inside the cramped wagon, which was had a bed, shelves, and a cooking stove built into the thick walls. A big portion of the room was filled with the supplies that they were to deliver to the Varden.

"Forgive us, it's a little cramped," Bjorne said with a grin. Then, she turned serious. "Alas, my cousin is correct. Riders, is there a way for us to prevent being heard outside?"

Ash nodded. "Consider it done, child."

As she murmured something in the ancient language, Arya leaned forward to regard the three survivors. "So, what exactly happened?"

"My mother found some maps," explained Astrid.

"Not maps, blueprints," snapped Hilde. "His mother, the Lady Cleirin, found some blueprints of most major cities in the Empire."

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><p>Eragon felt better after a long, warm bath. The dwarves provided him with a deep purple robe, and a circlet adorned with sapphires upon his brow. Over his shoulders was a cloak of white, threaded with gold threads. Seated beside him was Murtagh, dressed in the similar clothing, but with a circlet decked with rubies.<p>

They were seated at Orik's table for dinner, with Hrothgar, Orik himself, and Orik's new wife, Hvedra, an apple-cheeked dwarf with fair hair. The two have been married for four days, the celebrations having just finished.

"It would have lasted a week, with the wealth of the family, but we cannot dally now that the new king is to be elected," explained Hvedra. "I am honored to have you in our family, Shadeslayer, Kingsguard." Dwarves have taken to calling Murtagh 'Kingsguard', apparently because of how he protected Hrothgar in the Battle of the Burning Plains. "I must stay here to make sure that he does not return to starving warriors and spent gold."

Orik took a long swig from his mead. "She is the grimstcarvlorss of our clan. Keeper of the house. Arranger? Ah, it is hard to find the word for it. She ensures that all families of our clan pay their tithes to Bregan Hold. All agreed upon, of course. She sees to it that herbs are driven to proper fiends at proper times, our stocks of supplies do not fall low, weavers have enough fabric, smiths have enough ore… you understand, right?"

"To maintain the hold like this, you truly are a good grimstcarvlorss," Eragon said, making sure to pronounce the word properly. "That is an amazing feat."

Hvedra turned pink and smiled demurely. "Thank you, Eragon," she said. "There will be a feast to conclude our celebrations tonight, and we would be honored to have you join at our table."

"Of course," Murtagh replied with a beam.

Hrothgar laughed. "I will be making sure that the preparations shall be completed by sunset, Grimstborith. You would do well to show your brothers around the hold."

"I believe we should also teach them more Dwarvish," Hvedra said with a smile. "Riders, mine cousin expressed his interest in teaching you our tongue."

"We would be most honored," Eragon said in excitement. He knew a few words thanks to Orik, and their scrolls in Ellesmera also contained some dwarf texts, but their knowledge was far from perfect. "From what I have learned, it is quite different from the common tongue and the ancient language."

"It is." Hrothgar waved to a passing servant, who refilled his tankard of mead. "It will take some time for you to get used to it, but Olhrun is a good teacher. He will do well."

"He is good, but it will take time," Orik said. "I shall be bringing him as translater, if he agrees to part with his work for a while."

Hvedra took his hand. "He will not pass the opportunity to teach Riders. He will part with his library."

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><p><strong>Why do I have a feeling that there will be a small succession crisis when Galby kicks the bucket? XD<strong>

**For some reason, I'm enjoying Murtagh's POV's lately. His inner monologues are less grim and are actually quite funny compared to his portrayal in the original materials. And he's just so adorable with kids, isn't he?**

**Astrid and Bjorne's name issues are a reference to my own frustration that I have a boy's name. Which makes introductions awkward.**

**There won't be much smashing and causing random mayhem next chapter, but expect some family bonding in the Beors, and family-related tension in the Varden. (No, it's not Melikir and Nasuada. Not even Faolin and Arya.)**

**And yep, the Pope's arrival was something awesome. I was quite distracted by the telecast so I wasn't able to get this chapter finished quickly.**

**Read and review, as always!**


	13. Fighting off the Brewing Storm

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but any mistake you might find here.**

**I'm sorry, my Internet connection was messed up by my provider again. Ugh. So, anyway, I'll be uploading twice today to make up for this.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13: Fighting off the Brewing Storm<strong>

The sky was progressively getting darker as the day went on. Roran couldn't help but look up everytime that there was a lull in the swordplay drills that Serylda was pushing her pupils – and some interested warriors of the Varden – through. He worried about Eragon and Murtagh, but hopefully Bregan Hold and the Beors themselves would keep them dry. Ash, Arya, and Nasuada were probably out in the open with his father, though, and would get soaked if they did not return soon.

"Roran, why are you not paying attention?" Serylda asked, stopping the drills and approaching him. She looked as worried as he felt, though. "Is everything well?"

"The sky does not feel right," admitted Roran. "I simply worry for the others."

"I am worried too," agreed Serylda. "I know not what is happening, but this rain does not bode well for me either."

By the time they left for lunch, Roran found himself walking with Vanir, who was carrying a stack of books for Jeod. The elf had a slight frown on his usually placid face. "I worry for them," he mused softly. He turned to Roran. "Jeod and Helen have kindly invited me for tea in their tent. Would you like to join us? They have been meaning to talk to you."

Roran raised an eyebrow, wondering what their friend would want to discuss with him. Due to recent events though, that would be quite a lot of possible subjects. Making sure that his cloak was in place, he set off to follow Vanir. Before they could pass through a lot of tents though, King Orrin – surrounded by his excessive bodyguards, as always – hailed him.

"Ah, Roran," he said. Oddly, he didn't sound like his usual flamboyant self. "Just the lad I was looking for."

"Is there something you needed, Your Highness?" Roran asked. He didn't really think much of the king, but it was best to be polite.

"We have finally received a message from your two comrades and your teacher," the king said. "One of the was sent ahead of the group with one of the survivors of the caravan. They should arrive shortly, and I wish to talk to you beforehand."

"Very well, as you wish," Roran replied, straightening up. He smoothed his coat and nodded to Vanir. "I am afraid that I will have to take up Jeod and Helen's most generous offer at another time. Please convey my apologies to them, my friend."

Vanir nodded, a faint smile on her face. "Of course. We shall talk more later." He bowed to Orrin and moved away, his dark cloak fluttering in the wind.

Roran nodded back and faced the king, who looked mildly amused.

"The funny thing about acting like a fool is that no one takes you seriously. They think you have nothing important to say. Now, what say you, cousin? Do you wish to learn more about yourself?"

Roran felt his eyebrows raise. "Cousin?"

Orrin's smile widened. "Come, we must talk where no one will listen. It is important for you to be prepared. Your father asked this as a favor to Melikir, and I have taken upon the task to let you know, myself."

The king turned with a dramatic flourish of his crimson cloak, and Roran had no choice but to follow. He wished he had Askanir with him, but the dragon was away on a hunting trip with the younger two. It was also a way for them to let their Eldunarya get acquainted with their surroundings too.

The king's tent was almost as big as the command and meeting pavilions, and was made of brightly-colored silks. Even the furniture inside were most lavish. Roran knew that not even Melikir nor Brom had such extravagant items in their tents.

The guards stationed themselves at the entrance. He sat at the head of his small table, and motioned for Roran to sit across from him. Orrin regarded him with deep blue eyes that seemed wiser than at first glance. "I find that family matters are often more tangled than they seem at first glance. I guess you can say that the same can be said of myself. Now, Argetlam, would you be so kind as to make sure that no one shall be listening in to our conversation?"

Roran bowed himself and uttered a quick spell in the Ancient Language. "There. No one will dare intrude upon us without alerting me first."

"Thank you." Orrin smiled placidly. "Now, where do we start? Ah, yes. As you might be aware of by now, Surda is ruled by my family – which is also descended from a long line of Alagaesian kings. We were quite fortunately spared by Galbatorix's initial attempts to purge the rest of his line, as we were overlooked. Funny, the way people seem to forget that our family also survived Galbatorix's massacre. After all, why would you consider people who did not inherit the kings' eyes to challenge your claim?"

"Kings' eyes? What do you mean?"

"The kings of the Broddring Kingdom were marked by violet eyes. Most heirs who did not inherit such eyes were refused to claim the throne." Orrin shook his head in amusement. "They were allowed to keep their estates and riches, of course. They just could not sit in the blasted throne because they did not inherit a specific trait from their ancestors, which is ridiculous."

"Well, it is a silly way to choose who will inherit the throne." Roran was not blind. He knew that he had violet eyes. Many people in Carvahall used to comment on it, but not that much since his mother had the same eyes. "Your eyes do not make you more or less of a great leader."

"That's true." Orrin gave him an appraising look. "That also means that if we follow tradition, I have no claim to the throne once we overthrow Galbatorix. There are quite a few candidates, though."

Cogs began to turn in Roran's mind. He knew that he would have come to the same conclusion faster with Askanir's help, but he had to make do with the dragon's absence. "There are many people with violet eyes, not just those with the blood of kings."

"Aye. But none as bright or as prominent as yours. Many Surdans have violet eyes. As a matter of fact, one of the Daughters of the Serpent have them, if I remember correctly. I think her name was Laerys. But if you take time, you will know who has the blood of kings. Even your father was not aware that he married one such person. Marian."

"You knew my mother?" Wonder and disbelief arose within Roran, and he fought hard to keep it down.

"Of course. And her mother, too. Given, I was a child when they left." Orrin's eyes seemed to peer at something invisible, and he turned wistful. "In histories written by people who knew about the act, they described the lords of Lithgow as the sole survivors of Galbatorix's attempt to kill his entire line. We survived, and we thrived. But the lords of Lithgow are the ones who have the right to inherit the throne, with their violet-eyed family."

"And I suppose this concerns me," Roran said in resignation as his mind worked on the bits and pieces he was gathering.

"Your mother's family was from Surda, were they not?"

"Aye, Father always said that they left Surda when Grandmother became displeased with her husband."

"Marian's mother, Allena, was the wife of Lord Velranos of Lithgow, and mother of the current lord, Herion." Orrin paused, letting Roran digest the words. "The two of them left when Velranos became obsessed with regaining the throne. Herion sided with his father, and young Helene, the third child,left for the Varden two years prior. Lord Herion himself lost his wife and the elder of his twins because of the same obsession."

Roran quietly accepted it all. He should have been awed. He was technically a prince! But the path ahead had never been so clear before. "Be that as it may, I want nothing to do with the throne."

Orrin regarded him with what looked like newfound respect. "You would be a popular choice, as a Rider and hero. But it seems like you have enough burdens as it is, and besides, no one wants an immortal king after Galbatorix. If we find Herion's first born, he might be a candidate if he was raised right. I want you to take care around Herion, cousin. He might not take it well that he is not the only one who can inherit the throne. His son is a good person, but even good people can be swayed to believe their own parents' foolishness. It happens."

"That is something I would never expect to hear from you," Roran told him.

Orrin laughed. "I get that a lot. Now, it is impossible for Herion not to find out about your existence. And from what we have gleaned, his eldest son is on his way here with Lady Arya. He might also find out about Helene's daughter – that dragon-marked child that you blessed. So Herion will be very nasty. Tread carefully, cousin."

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><p>Eragon noted the subdued atmosphere in Tronjheim. No dwarf child ran through the halls. Dwarves on the streets were scarce. Though that was partly a given, due to the fact that they were at war, not even non-combatants seemed to linger long. Few gave them looks of awe before moving away, but quite a number of them looked sullen. Some muttered in outright hate.<p>

Olhrun, a particularly slim, dark-haired dwarf with slate-gray eyes, stared pointedly at a few dwarves in veils, who seemed ready to make trouble. "As Sweldn Rak Anhuin never means good," he growled in his deep voice, which was in contrast with his overall scholarly appearance. "They hate Riders and dragons mindlessly, Argetlam."

"Sometimes, I wonder if they don't hate everything but themselves and each other mindlessly," Murtagh said dryly.

"Do take care not to let them hear you say that," Hrothgar warned. "They might take it as aggression and retaliate."

Orik nodded. "Best not to do anything that may provoke them."

"Better if we pray to Guntera to grace us with a king sympatethic to our causes."

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><p>Roran watched the events unfurling within the meeting pavilion, where Lord Herion was throwing a tantrum while his son watched uncertainly at the entrance. Melikir, his council, and Orrin's retinue watched him placidly, while the other Riders present watched with varied looks of hostility. The dragons themselves lingered outside, and Askanir himself seemed to be considering whether to roast the irritating nobleman or not.<p>

"You sheltered Marian's son, and you did not tell me?" he snarled at the two leaders again. "Someone threatens my claim, and you did not tell me. I have a right to know."

"You have a right to know about the side of your family that did not want anything to do with you? About a boy who had no idea what he stood for? Someone who cares nothing for a throne? A child greater than a king?" Orrin rolled his eyes. "He himself told me in full confidence that he is not interested in being a king. He is a Rider, and Riders are no kings. Did you not, cousin? I trust your judgement more than some in my council – and more than some of my own lords."

"Riders are no kings," Herion said, mocking Orrin's accent. "People can change. Can you say that Marian's spawn will not be tempted once Galbatorix and his minions are slain? We don't want another mad Black King."

"Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my most esteemed Lord. But you might want to learn how not to speak of a person as if he is not around. And you may want to learn to respect people, whether they are lords or not." Ash stepped into the pavilion with a swish of her traveling cloak. "So much intrigue and greed! My, my. No wonder Arya had no interest in elven politics."

Melikir smiled. "The lady is quite right."

Herion glared at him before focusing the brunt of his rage to Ash. He gave here a derisive look that would have melted a lesser woman. "And who, pray tell, in the blazes are you to speak like that to me? Do you not know who I am? Are you some slattern who is after the throne too?"

The pavilion plunged into a horrified silence. Ash remained calm, but her anger boiled. But it was Serylda's rage that poured forth. The elf moved forward from the line of Riders behind Orrin and Melikir. "How dare you?" she asked. "Do you not know who she is?"

"And how am I to know all the wenches in this camp, Argetlam?"

"I am Ash of House Thranduril, daughter of the Cripple Who is Whole – the Mourning Sage – and Rider of Brand." Ash smiled placidly and carefully raked Herion with her eyes, from the bottom up. "And you are Herion, fifth-degree descendant of Galbatorix's elder half-brother, Arnford, who apparently owes his life to my sister and I. I thought you would be… taller."

Someone else stepped into the pavilion. A young man, not older than the Riders themselves, faced lord Herion. He stood tall and proud, round and well-built. A dwarf-made sword was strapped across his back, his tawny hair cropped short like some younger warriors of the Varden. His clothing was a little ragged, but seemed quite expensive. Violet eyes – so much like Roran's, so much like Herion and his son's – gleamed with suppressed rage.

"I can't say I'm pleased to meet you, Father."

Herion's eyes bulged. He studied the boy coldly. "I only have one son."

Orrin narrowed his eyes, hand flying to his sword hilt swiftly. "Ah, but I did bear witness to the birth of your twin sons. And your split with your wife, who managed to bring your eldest with her. I rather hoped that she took Claus too, alas, there was not much time after I legalized your separation." He turned to the newcomer. "Your name, lad?"

"Astrid," the boy said, raising his chin defiantly.

"See? He bears the name. The eyes of kings. And your hair, my most esteemed cousin."

"We are no cousins," snarled Herion. "You do not have the eyes of the kings."

"And yet I have them," Orrin said. "Keep in mind that not all inherited the eyes. But that does not make that any less human as you."

Firnen watched as the armor-scale-humans drove their four-wheel-vehicles – wagons? – through the plains. The original hoof-feet-horses were apparently driven away by the bandits, so the troops led by fire-hair-beard-Martland harnessed their own horses to the wagons and drove the caravans themselves.

Foolish two-legs-round-ears. Did they not realize that the hoof-feet-horses were slower and can carry less items when compared to might-claw-tooth-dragons?

_Then again, do you think a dragon would agree to carry supplies like beasts of burden? _Partner-of-his-mind-and-heart-Arya smiled in amusement as they circled the tiny helpless humans and horses beneath them. She smiled, beautiful, he supposed, among two-legs. No wonder ice-blade-magic-Eragon was quite besotted with her. She peered at him, eyebrow raised. _You do know that I can hear your thoughts._

_ And you do know that I wanted you to hear,_ he told her.

Sun-scale-Solaris-from-same-nest watched him with an amused gleam in her eyes. Atop her back, night-skin-shadow-Nasuada beamed, as if she and partner-of-her-mind-and-heart shared a secret joke.

_The problem with us is that we sometimes worry too much about trivial things,_ sun-scale-Solaris told him.

Arya nodded knowledgeably. _Aye, that is true._ She turned to Firnen, her forest-sky-eyes glinting in the fire-sun-ray. _Firnen, I worry about Eragon and Saphira too,_ she admitted. _Of course, Murtagh and Thorn, too. They might be traveling into a trap. Or some other danger._

_ I know, I know,_ Firnen told him. He couldn't let himself think of the dangers.

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><p><strong>I just never could bite the fact that Orrin's personality steadily grew more and more shallow as the series went on. I've always thought that he was just pretending to be sillier than he actually is.<strong>

**So, did I satisfy your curiosity regarding the family drama?**

**Read and review, as always, and hold on for the next chapter!**


	14. A Lesson in Politics

**Disclaimer: Everything you see here is not mine.**

**A chapter that takes place only in Tronjheim. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 14: A Lesson in Politics<strong>

Murtagh followed Eragon out of the circular meeting chamber that rested deep under the central part of Tronjheim. He winced as the door slammed shut behind him. He watched his brother scowl and cross his arms, glaring at the floor – which was brightly decorated with agate and jade rectangles.

"I thought we were past the age of tantrums, brother," Murtagh noted.

He felt the hollow ache inside his mind. Thorn and Saphira were hunting outside Farthen Dur, staying clear of the city-mountain. They wished to make sure that no threat loomed over the dwarven elections – which was a good notion. Too bad Murtagh knew that they were simply unsure about their standing among the dwarves, now that the Varden departed Tronjheim.

Eragon looked up. "We have been here for three days," he said. "They have been talking of inconsequential matters for that period of time."

"It might not be important for us, but it is for them." Murtagh nodded as the dwarf guards Orik assigned to them – and their translator, Olhrun, approached. "What better way to bring them up than now that they have a bigger purpose to gather? It would probably be something that the future king would need to keep in mind."

"Shall we go, Argetlamar?" Olhrun inquired. They began to walk as the Riders consented. "I am not much of a politician, I must admit, but what do you think of Grimstborith Orik's rivals?"

Dwarves passing the hall greeted them with variations of "Argetlam." Murtagh nodded to them before turning back to their conversation. "This is a little too public. What if someone overhears us? We might need to wait until we reach our quarters."

"Ah, but it is traditional for everyone to discuss the elections," Olhrun explained. "Even now, dwarves that we pass by discuss the different candidates."

Murtagh nodded thoughtfully, tugging at his deep violet coat, which had the symbol of Durgrimst Ingeitum carefully stitched in silver threads in the upper left side. "They are most interesting. Iorunn is quite friendly, but devious."

Eragon winced. "She hasn't been treating you the same way she treats me," he groaned.

"She is quite a beauty, Grimstborith Iorunn…" Olhrun said wistfully. Everyone kept saying that – and it was true. Even by human standards, Iorunn was quite a stirking beauty. And with the reputation of the Vrenshrrgn as a warlike clan, it was enough to set any mortal man's blood on fire. Not that Murtagh's did. He just had to think of Nasuada, and all was well. "Quite clever, and not a bad warrior too. She's quite young even by human standards, if you must know."

"She's been flirting with my brother, remember?" Murtagh told Olhrun with a dramatic whisper. The other dwarves were amused by her treatment of the younger Rider in attendance.

Eragon turned red and tried to deviate the conversation. "For all her cunning, it is most interesting that only the Urzhad pledged their support for her."

Olhrun shook his head. "Sometimes, it is not just about capability and influence, Argetlam. Agreements over age-old disputes, deals of treasures and land, and shared interests sometimes help."

"Bribery and shared interests. Most interesting indeed." Eragon shrugged. "Well, Gannel seems like a good leader too, but the priests of the Quan sometimes bother me. Though I must admit, their chosen profession and their riches would give them quite a leverage. I wouldn't wonder why Undin of Ragni Hefthyn would support him. Celbedeil is being protected by them. Durgrimst Ebardac is another matter, though. I wonder why scholars would side with priests."

"Oh, there are many reasons, such as their shared interests in knowledge," Murtagh said with a shrug, earning a nod of approval from their translator. He was swarmed by an army of the Ebardac during their first day, receiving questions about human culture and why oh why in the gods name he and his brother looked likeelves. "They must fancy themselves as protectors of dwarven culture and history."

"It is quite possible that both of them might not support our cause," Olhrun said worriedly. "Though it is not an assurance either. They have shown no inclination either. Riders, what honestly worries me is Nado."

Murtagh scowled. Nado of Durgrimst Knurlcarathn – the stoneworkers – was quite influential, being in charge of building and maintaining tunnels. They were also the biggest and richest clans, gaining the support of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin, Fanghur, and Feldunost – though Murtagh was aware that only Knurlcarathn and Az Sweldn rak Anhuin seemed to oppose or outright hate anything outside of the Beors.

It still did not bode well, for they had the most support aside from Orik of Ingeitum himself.

The alliances between clans were still shaky at best, and a lot of poaching and backstabbing was ensuing. Or so, at least, they were told.

Murtagh sighed. "What I do not understand though, is why they need to vote if they were already prepared to choose a new ruler. And nine votes before making such a move? Is selecting a new ruler not of the utmost importance?"

"Sometimes, it seems like we dwarves move as slowly as the stone we were carved from. But it has never led us astray," Olhrun patiently told him.

They reached the southern hallway leading to the center of Tronjheim – the same hallway that they once marched through when they first arrived in Tronjheim months ago. It felt like lifetimes to Murtagh. "So many has transpired since we first set foot here," he murmured with a faint smile. "We have changed as much as Tronjheim has."

Eragon nodded in agreement. "I feel older. Not really wiser, but we know more now. And we are definitely stronger."

Dwarves of all clans thronged the massive avenue. Some of them acknowledged the passing Riders, murmuring "Shadeslayer" and "Kingsguard" in differing levels of reverence, while others chose to ignore them. Which suited Murtagh well. He did not want to wear a mask in front of those who did the same to him.

A cluster of dwarves from Az Sweldn rak Anhuin crossed the hallway, looking at him from behind their purple veils. The last in their small line spat on the floor toward the Riders before walking away. _Probably because they would be too afraid to try that if there were dragons here,_ Eragon told Murtagh in amusement. _Their blood feud with us still scares me, actually. We have to settle this, one way or another._

_ Aye,_ Murtagh replied with a sigh. _We can't live in fear forever._

They passed pillars of black onyx capped by yellow zircons, thrice the size of a grown man. The central chamber was a sight to behold, a thousand feet in diameter ad with a floor made of polished carnelian. The twelve stars and hammer of Ingeitum – and of the first dwarven king, Korgan – was etched on its surface. The chamber had no ceiling, reaching all the way to the top of Tronjheim, and into the dragonhold, where the Riders and their dragons resided before Arya and Katrina shattered the star sapphire – and to the blue sky above them.

Faint sunlight trickled down the base of Tronjheim, which was aptly called the City of Eternal Twilight by the elves. It was illuminated instead by thousands and thousands of flameless numbers in different colors. White ones lit up the central chamber, like lost stars waiting to be released back to the sky. Lanterns of all gemlike colors also lit the path to and on Vol Turin, the Endless Staircase, which spiraled around the area from top to bottom.

They were not as beautiful as the greatest jewel of them all – Isidar Mithrim, the Star Rose. A wooden scaffold, sixty feet in diameter, enclosed in fitted oak beams, were the pieces of the rose-pink star sapphire, reassembled slowly with the utmost delicacy.

"Though we could never hope to match it, I hope that we could place something similar to it once we find a home for the Riders someday," mused Eragon. "And maybe put something that will remind us of our time here."

"An interesting proposition," Murtagh said, noting the area where Durza and his Urgals emerged from the dwarven tunnels beneath. The polished stone was as perfect as before. "This is where we fought our first true battle with a sword of fire and a sword of ice."

"That is where you defeated Durza?" Olhrun's eyes widened. "You must tell me more about it some other day! I could ask Grimstborith Orik to create a memorial of some kind. No one must forget the price we paid for freedom."

After a quick talk with Skeg – the member of Durgrimst Gedthrall who supervised the restoration – Murtagh followed his brother deeper into Tronjheim to dine with Orik and Hrothgar, wondering how on earth the dragons were going to make it whole again

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><p>Both dressed in dark clothing, Eragon sat beside his twin, leaning their backs against the round room where the clanmeet was taking place. The circular room was populated by warriors, advisers, servants, and numerous family members who were honored to accompany their clan chiefs. The Grimstborithn themselves sat around a circular table which bore the crest of Korgan and the Ingeitum.<p>

Galdhiem of Feldunost – which was against outsiders unlike most of his clan, was in the middle of a speech translated by Olhrun. He was short even for dwarves – barely two feet in height – and dressed in robes of gold, russet, and deep blue. His gray beard was neither trimmed nor braided, instead simply tumbling across his chest in a tangled mess. His speech increased in passion as he pounded his gloved fist on the polished table.

Bored, Eragon watched the other clan chiefs instead. Nado of Knurlcarathn was a flaxen-haired dwarf with a round face who was a little older than Orik. He nodded as Galdhiem continued his irate blabbing, smiling vehemently as he caught Eragon's eye. The Rider shifted his gaze to Havard of Feldunost, who was using his dagger to clean the fingernails of his remaining to right-hand fingers. Heavy-browed Vermund of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin was quite the enigma behind his veil. Gannel of Quan and Undin of Ragni Hefthyn – whom Eragon both met before – were talking in whispers. Elderly Hadfala of Ebardac scowled at her parchment.

Then there were Orik's allies. Manndrath of Ledwonnu sat in profile to Eragon, scratched his long, drooping nose. Thordris of Durgrimst Nagra flicked her wavy auburn hair – which fell past her shoulders and into a coiled braid twice as long as her height – whispered something to Orik, who chuckled. Freowin of Gedthrall , a fleshy dwarf, regarded the block of wood he was carving into the likeness of a hunched raven.

Grimstborith Hreidamar of Urzhad – a lithe-bodied dwarf, sat straight and proper, clad in armor and a silver-hued helm gleaming with amethysts and sapphires. Then there was his ally, lovely Iorunn with the nut-brown skin so smooth, the thin, crescent scar on her left cheekbone was so noticeable. Her emerald-adorned helm was wrought into the form of a snarling wolf. She was busy smoothing her vermilion dress, making her emerald necklace flash and its arcane runes glow.

She caught him looking at her and smiled in a slow, languid movement. She winked for a few heartbeats before Eragon shifted his gaze, feeling blood warm his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He still did not know what to think of her. He pretended to stay impassive.

Once they were dismissed for a short midday break, Eragon secured permission from Orik to wander around the tunnels for a while. He was tired of sitting and talking all day. It didn't exactly help his appetite, either. Murtagh was right behind him, as he always did in the past four days, and of course, Olhrun and their bodyguards. He did not really mind, so long as he does not have to bear another half-hour of sitting or talking. He took a random direction, letting his feet lead him where he should be.

_Dwarven factions are more complicated than I thought,_ Murtagh noted after a few minutes of silence. _How kings could mold them into a functioning whole is a feat enough. Imagine how the Rider ambassadors also dealt with them!_

_And discrimination against other races and too much contempt for anything outside their world does not help them in advancing either,_ sighed Eragon.

Some dwarves mumbled some greetings to them, which the twin Riders responded to automatically. Eragon kept his mind open for everyone aside from his companions, not wishing to be taken by surprise should anyone try to approach him.

They ended up in a curious dusty room, black arches to the left leading to some curious onyx arches leading to unknoqn caverns. To his right was a bas-relief carving of a bear with gold teeth and ruby eyes.

"These rooms…" Olhrun said curiously. "Are they what I think they are?"

"Aye." Kvistor, the young lead guard, nodded. He spoke in the common tongue for the benefit of the Riders. "They were cleared millenia ago by Korgan himself, when Tronjheim was still under construction."

Eragon marvelled for a while at the gleaming bear eyes beforep eering at the five archways. No lanterns were in place a few meters beyond the last archway, and the place softly faded into a muffled shadow. All Eragon could feel in that direction were small insects.

"Kvistor, there is no one in these paths? I mean, does no one live here?" asked Murtagh.

Kvistor shrugged. "Some do. There are some strange knurlan who prefer empty solitude to the touch of their wife's hand or the laughter of their children. One such knurlag warned us of the approaching Urgals, if you must remember. Argetlam, you must also know about something we do not speak often. There are knurlan who break the laws of our land and are banished by the clan chiefs. It may be a year, it may be for life. They are the walking dead to us. We do not act as if they are still with us if we meet them outside of our lands. If they enter our borders, we hang them."

Eragon felt himself shudder. They soon departed, Kvistor and Olhrun taking the lead. The other dwarf guards stood behind the Riders. They took no more than a few paces when Murtagh raised a finger to his lips, stopping everyone and falling back. Eragon soon heard the faint scuffing behind them too.

Under the amber-colored lights of the flameless lanterns standing guard on either side of the passageway, seven black-garbed dwarves, faces concealed with dark cloth and feet muffled by rags dashed toward them with speed that was usually associated by creatures with magic running in their veins. They gripped long, sharp daggers flickering like a prisms and carried metal bucklers with a sharpened spike in the middle. The most terrifying part was that their minds were hidden from the Riders – like the Ra'zac.

Alerted a few seconds before the others, Murtagh managed to pull back the dwarf guards behind him and already had Istalri in his hand to face two of the nearest enemies himself. Eragon drew Vorstnar, motioning for the other dwarves to stay behind him. He charged the would-be assassins approaching surrounding his brother. The width of the room allowed only three of the enemies to charge at a time, which was a small relief.

"Vorstnar!" he called out the name of his sword and slammed it on the floor on a whim. A sheet of ice extended from the sword, to the floor, and toward the nearest dwarf, knocking him off balance as Murtagh decapitated the other one flanking him. Eragon plunged his blade into the fallen dwarf's heart and tried to cast one of the twelve death-words, but abandoned it immediately upon realizing that the dwarves were warded.

None of them could spare a few precious minutes to break those wards. He couldn't even break into their minds, the mental armor oddly smooth and seamless. It wasn't something he would expect even from the Forsworn. Not when they were locked in a death battle.

Murtagh stabbed the other attacker with his burning sword, leaving only three. Eragon slammed his sword hilt on the next dwarf's abdomen. The dwarf began to struggle, attempting to slit Eragon's throat with his dagger. Eragon bent backward and struck, slashing across the dwarf and the one who tried to creep up Eragon's left flank in one smooth movement. Murtagh was locked in battle with the sixth and seventh dwarf, using a fallen foe's shield.

Eragon summoned his magic and knocked one of the two with a sheet of ice again. They might be immune to magic, but not to its effects. He parried a dagger strike and managed to retaliate, slicing the dwarf's dagger arm from the elbow to the wrist. Blue eyes glared at Eragon from above the cloth mask. They matched blows for a while. It seemed like the last two dwarves left were the best among them.

He maneuvered backwards, hoping that Murtagh could quickly finish off the other foe. His heel suddenly struck a body and stumbled. He fell against a wall, the impact knocking the wind out of him. Laughter burst forth from the dwarf's lips as he pounced, aiming a stab doward Eragon's chest. Eragon rolled farther down the hallway,getting a glimpse of the pale dagger descending toward him.

The blade struck a flameless lantern on one of the walls, causing a massive explosion that threw Eragon twenty feet through the hall, landing on top of his brother and the corpse of the other dwarf in a bloody, smoking heap. Pain seared his ears, and he felt himself howl.

A ten-foot portion of the hallway was blasted into soot, bits of ash whirling around the forge-hot air. The dwarf who was about th strike Eragon was covered with burns, thrashing for a few seconds before going limp. Olhrun and the dwarf guards were lying at the edge of the soot, thrown off by the explosion and their ears bleeding. The fringes of the guards' hauberks glowed red, but they were well enough. Olhrun was bruised and a little battered, though.

Eragon got to his feet as Murtagh cursed – though Eragon could not hear him. He also felt a fiery pain between his shoulders and realized that he was suffering from burns. Healing them – and his ears- were not a problem. He and Murtagh then proceeded to heal the others, taking special care to get rid of bruises and ear injuries.

"I don't want to go through that again," Murtagh groaned with a scowl.

They inspected the corpses of the black-garbed attackers. One of their guards, the tallest of them with a forked beard, let out a curse. "Barzul! We cannot find any marks upon them that might tell us their clans, Rider, but I found this." He held up seven bracelets of braided horsehair, set with polished cabochons of a richly-hued amethyst.

Olhrun frowned, inspecting one of the bracelets. "I know these gems," he noted. "This particular variety only grows in four parts of the Beors – one is owned by the Gedthrall, and the other three belong to Az Sweldn rak Anhuin. The particular design of these items are theirs, too."

"The odds are three against one, then." Eragon shook his head. "Is it possible that Vermund could have ordered the attack? Could Freowin try to frame them?"

"Freowin is least likely. He won't stand to gain anything from this attack. Though anyone, I must admit, could try to frame Az Sweldn rak Anhuin."

"I'd wager a cartload of gold that it was them, though," Kvistor muttered.

Murtagh peered at the prismatic daggers. "These knurlag had spells cast on them and their weapons. This would involve a great amount of energy and complex wording. It would be something dangerous."

The twins exchanged looks, and Eragon regarded Olhrun and the guards. "You are the witnesses. We swear that we shall not let this attack go unpunished. Whichever clan sent these dung-faced killers against us, we shall learn their names. They struck not just at us. They struck at Durgrimst Ingeitum, to which we belong. And as Riders of Durgrimst Ingeitum, I swear, we will find justice. Let everyone know of this attack, and our oath."

Kvistor nodded to them proudly. "We obey your word, Shadeslayer. You truly honor our clan with your words."

"Whichever clan it was, they violated a clear law, did they not, Olhrun?" the fork-bearded dwarf asked.

Olhrun nodded. "They violated the law of hospitality by attacking a guest – honored guests, in fact. They are menknurlan."

The dwarves spat angrily on the floor.

As they departed from the hallway to report the events, Eragon grabbed a pair of the daggers for future study.

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><p><strong>If you think you're missing something, hold on and go back a chapter. I uploaded twice today.<strong>

**Anyway, we'll be dealing with the Varden next chapter and won't hear from Eragon and Murtagh for a while. We'll be seeing some crazy Forsworn and creepy laughing dead.**

**Read and review as always!**


	15. A Battle Against Living Nightmares

**Disclaimer: You own nothing, Jon Snow.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 15: A Battle Against Living Nightmares<strong>

It was the day after Nasuada returned to the camp. They were to start the march to Feinster in a week, and she could not help but feel nervous. Melian was a day's march away, and soldiers might be headed from that city at any time to strike them. They have tarried too long in their current camp. They could actually attack the small city, but Melikir was adamant upon securing a major port city and commandeer supplies first.

Solaris was curled up lazily beside her tent, watching the passing villagers of Carvahall with amusement. Katrina's father, Sloan, was directing a few hunters to the kitchens with angry instructions on how they were to handle the meat they managed to snag. Nasuada herself was sitting on a small stool, sorting some herbs and studying a few ways to concoct useful potions and poisons. It was a dirty tactic, she had to admit, but something that might come in useful. She gleaned a little on witchcraft from Angela, who took interest in her abilities.

_It is a most peaceful day, is it not? _Solaris opened one eye languidly. She seemed displeased, though. _Sometimes it feels like a simple lull in the action._

_ That is not something I would be looking forward to,_ Nasuada noted idly. A pair of the elf guards stood nearby, hands casually laid on the pommel of their swords. _Though that would give our guards something to do. They were most displeased when Eragon and Murtagh departed without them, and even more so when we left with Arya and Firnen._

_ We are free to do as we please,_ the dragon said, shifting to a more comfortable position.

Nasuada shook her head. _Maybe, but it is better not to offend those who mean well._

A single horn rang out across the camp, and silence fell. Two more followed it.

_There we are, tempting fate,_ Nasuada growled, running into her tent.

She threw on her mail, secured her helm, and strapped on greaves and bracers. Slinging her pack on her back, she grabbed her shield and Solaris' saddle before she ran out, clambering up Solaris' back and fastening the saddle. Slinging her bow and quiver across her back, it was lucky that she always kept Solus with her at all times. She turned to the elves standing guard as mothers grabbed children and warriors grabbed their weapons. "North entrance!" she yelled.

War drums pounded around as Solaris bounded through the camp before launching herself a little upward, keeping themselves low as they met up with the other dragon and Rider pairs. Ash and Serylda were shouting over the din, trying to organize some panicked troops. Men, dwarves, and Urgals rushed to heed the call to arms.

Garzhvog, Brom, and Melikir were talking in loud tones at the northern entrance of the gate. King Orrin was yelling at Lord Herion, who was complaining loudly to him. Astrid and his female companions, Bjorne and Hilde,were all heavily armed. Herion's cavalry was led by his son, Claus.

They saluted the Riders, who studied the Jiet River. Two miles away were five sleek boats, black as pitch. They landed on the near bank of the river, ejecting a swarm of warriors from Galbatorix's army which marched toward them.

Faolin and Angela marched toward them, Angela looking worried. "How many?" she asked.

"Around six or seven hundred," Serylda growled. "This is odd."

"Why so few?" Jormundur inquired as he jogged into the spot, followed by Narheim and a host of dwarf warriors.

"That seems too easy," mused Faolin. "But the king is cunning, is he not, Nar Garzhvog?"

"Yes. The Dragon King may be a false-tongued traitor, but the rogue ram does not possess a feeble mind." The Urgal scowled at the approaching host. "He has many dark tricks."

Melikir nodded. "We cannot let them approach our camp. Jormundur, secure the archers and pikemen. Orrin, Herion, stop this foolishness and take charge of the cavalry. Flank them. Riders… do whatever it is you can." The loud horn sounded again.

"Why are they letting us know that they are attacking?" yelled Roran. "They must be planning something."

Something stirred on the far side of the river. A host of eight dragons soared toward them, glittering in all colors.

The horn was not a warning to the Varden. They were summoning the Forsworn.

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><p>"Barzul," roared Aesyr. She brandished Myrkir around, wondering how she could fight the Forsworn with just one Eldunari.<p>

_Do not despair,_ Halfath told her, stirring from within the Eldunari inside her pack. The female dragon sounded confident. _We will be more than a match for them. Galbatorix never entrusted them with more than a couple of Eldunarya since the war, or so Ash told me._

_ I hope so,_ Sardonis whispered. _I am not so prepared to face them yet._

"Intercept the Forsworn," Orrin called. "They might burn the camp."

"Which is probably their plan, which is why they are alerting you of their presence," Narheim said. "They will fight in the air while the soldiers attack us on the ground."

Aesyr nodded nervously. "What do we do?"

One of the dragons approaching let out a roar of challenge that shook the fortifications. Ash nodded, as if it confirmed something. "Well, it seems like they have spelled it clearly for us. We fight now. We are warriors of the sky. Let others worry about defending the ground."

"We are with you, Riders," announced Blodhgarm. He beamed, the whiteness of his teeth a stark contrast to his night-dark fur. "But they do not know it. Stay as close to us as possible. We will help in any way we could."

"I will be joining them," Faolin added.

Brom grunted. "And so will I. I won't let my pupils face those bastards alone!"

Diamanda let out a challenging roar, startling Vanir. _Let them come! We are not afraid!_

"Wind guide you, Riders!" Faolin yelled as the dragons took flight.

The wind rushed past Aesyr as Sardonis began to beat his mighty wings. The black dragon had grown so much since the day he hatched in Ellesmera. She brandished her dark sword, wondering how its special ability could be employed in battle. She discarded the notion, planning to experiment later. For now, she could use her meager knowledge of true sorcery and opened her mind to the spirits around her that she could ask for aid from.

_Do not fear, little Rider,_ Halfath growled. _I am here with you._

Aesyr smiled, and brandished her sword. She found herself facing Himeria once more, wondering why on earth Nasuada refused to face her. "So we meet again," she said with a wry grin.

Himeria's eyes narrowed, her mane of black hair now brushing past her shoulders. "It seems like you have a new toy, Rider. You do know that I'll be taking that away too, right?"

"I don't think so." Aesyr let her lips quirk up into a languid smile. "I don't think my sword will like that. And neither will you."

The enemy Rider bared her teeth as her dragon growled menacingly. "It seems like you haven't tasted enough pain to know when to surrender. It would be easier for both of us if you come to the king willingly. It is the only way for him to show you his mercy."

"And do you believe everything that you are saying? Are you truly happy with the king who happily ordered the death of your father? We used to play as children, Himeria. Your brother and your sister miss you. Your family needs you. With you joining us, we will be stronger than ever."

Pain as old as time itself crossed Himeria's lovely face. Tears filled her eyes a moment before she willed them away. "I have chosen my path, and I cannot afford any more regrets. Even if I want to, though, you know that I cannot. He knows our true names, and there will be no escape for us aside from death."

Aesyr managed to get the agreements of lesser spirits around her, taking in their strength, letting it course through her body. It would be but a fleeting connection to the spirits, but it was enough to strengthen her. It was all she could get, and she did not wish to push herself further and be overwhelmed. "I do not wish to kill you. And what if there was another way? A person's true name can change. If yours do, then you can finally escape him."

Volsalaruum let out a small whimpering growl. Aesyr felt pity for the pale yellow dragon who was simply born into the world to play out a madman's whims. Volsalaarum's eyes were so vulnerable, and it showed truly how young he is, despite his enormous size.

"I know that I have many flaws," Himeria called out. "But a person cannot change everything overnight. If you come with us, maybe we could work together."

"No, it is not an option for us." Aesyr felt Sardonis' pity and rage, welling up within her very soul, like an all-consuming flame. "You know that we will not come with you willingly."

Himeria's eyes hardened. "Then I must do what I was sent here for. Forgive me, old friend."

With an angry roar, the dragons collided, their bodies moving sinuously as they tried to gain advantage over each other. It was all Aesyr could do to stay on the saddle. With a quick flick of her spiked tail, Sardonis slammed Volsalaruum away, drawing blood on the younger dragon's flank.

The dragons engaged once more, their claws shining white against the bright sun. They maneuvered against each other, almost unseating their Riders. Sardonis was larger and bulkier than the younger dragon, and Volsalaarum managed to draw blood this time. Aesyr felt pain along her collar when the muscles right below Sardonis' neck were torn open. The angry black dragon roared, shaking the entire plains, and kicked Volsalaruum away.

Aesyr bared her teeth. She knew that Himeria was ordered to simply deliver them to Galbatorix, not kill them, so she assumed that it was safe to use magic and heal Sardonis when that could otherwise kill her when battling other magicians.

_Don't! Don't! _She felt Ash's mind pressing against hers. _Let the elves do it. And avoid using your magic unless your enemy initiates first. You might be easily overwhelmed, even with your sorcery._

_ Very well, Master._ Aesyr glared at Himeria, who reflected her hatred.

As his wound slowly closed, Sardonis began to harry Volsalaruum downwards, his wings flapping with immense strength as he tried to throw the dragon off balance. After a minute, the dragons disengaged. _He is far stronger than I assumed, _Sardonis noted dryly. He did not seem pleased.

They paused and then charged again, colliding against each other with a resounding crash.

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><p>Vanir was jolted to his bones by the sudden impact as Diamanda and Nalsalaruum grappled against each other, Diamanda's teeth closing around Nalsalaruum's neck and Nalsalaruum's claws dug into Diamanda's shoulders. They thrashed, spiralling around randomly.<p>

Vanir hated himself for wanting to injure Isilude. The enemy Rider was not truly evil. He was simply forced to do a task by the man who enslaved him and his Rider. But if he wanted to live, he had to do what he must. He raised his sword, glittering like a pearl in the morning sun. He aimed for a crosswise slash to Isilude's shoulder, but it seemed like his foe matched his elven speed, parrying with a shield. He retaliated, pale blue sword whistling toward him like an overgrown icicle.

He barely had time to parry the blow with a swing fo his sword, surprised by the human's speed. Isilude was not yet changed. As the dragons writhed and fought, the two Riders atop also traded blows. Vanir earned a small bruise as Isilude crushed the mail against his ribs, and he nicked Isilude's cheek and bruised his leg in exchange.

He felt his side mend as the elves on the ground healed him. Diamanda circled the injured Narlsalaruum, who hissed at her. They clashed again, equal in size and power. Diamanda was more slender though, much faster. She clawed Narlsalaruum's belly, and was unrelenting as she struck her foe's body.

With a roar, Narlsaraluum bared her teeth and roared in pain. She was not yet old enough to breathe fire, but she was getting close. As the two dragons clashed once more, Vanir felt Isilude attempt to invade his mind. He felt the multitude of confused dragons trapped within the Eldunarya that the latter probably possessed.

Eragon was always better in weaponizing his mind, but Vanir knew enough to manage. Or so, he hoped. Since he became a Rider, he was never sure of anything but the uncertainty of life anymore. He shored up his defenses and slammed his own mind against Isilude's. As their dragons snapped and clawed at each other, the two Riders were almost immobile, locked in their own silent battle. The two dragons were steadily hurtling to the ground, wings forgotten.

In desperation, Vanir drew the hunting knife that was hanging on his belt – a small weapon that Horst the Blacksmith asked him, quite shyly, to deliver to Jeod after some repairs before the attack – and flicked it at Isilude's face, taking the human by surprise.

Though he managed to flick it aside, it was enough to break his concentration. Vanir seized the chance to shatter his defenses and bind his arms and legs with a single word – without any opposition until the did was done. Isilude broke free, but not until Diamanda inflicted grave wounds upon Narlsalaruum, and she was forced to retreat.

_It seems like your battle is over for now. _Brom's voice was strained. _Help the army. It seems like our foes are more than what we expected them to be._

_ Is that not how it always is, Ebrithil? _Vanir's lips quirked up into a faint smile as they spiralled down near Orrin's cavalry, which intercepted the soldiers. To their left, men, Urgals, and horses were running around in panic and confusion. Weapons clashing and wounded men screaming could be heard accompanied with another sound that chilled Vanir's soul.

The sound of demented laughter.

Brom and Faolin jogged toward him, both looking as exhausted as he felt. His teacher's eyes seemed sunken and tired. "It seems like Galbatorix has wrought dangerous enchantments upon his soldiers."

Faolin frowned as he healed Diamanda, glancing at Vanir. "We cannot contact Orrin's spellcasters. Even Du Vrangr Gata heard nothing but gibberish." The fear on his face was clear for all to see, and it was not a bad thing. Everyone should feel fear when it is appropriate.

Among the warriors before them, men began to cry in excitement and terror. "What is happening? Why have they not killed the soldiers yet?" Roran roared as he joined them, looking as battered as Vanir felt. Askanir's snout was bleeding.

"Back! Back, all of you! Archers, stay there, you yellow-livered fools! Don't move!" Orrin roared over the din, brandishing a bloodstained blade.

Vanir exchanged looks with Roran. Above them, the other Riders still fought with the Forsworn. As much as they wanted to help, with their exhaustion they might just cause problems instead of helping out.

"Let's at least see what is happening," Roran said.

Vanir nodded. Diamanda spread her tired wings and leaped over the horsemen, startling the horses. Without waiting for Askanir and Roran to catch up, she bounded through the battlefield and toward King Orrin. The defenders stepped aside, and they found the king mounted at the head of a group of infantry, warily eyeing a single man forty feet away. Orrin had a wild look upon him, his usually pristine armor stained with accumulated filth from combat. He ignored the wound on his left arm and the spear shaft embedded in his right thigh.

"Riders," he said wearily. "Where are the others? Are you well?"

"Well enough, but not good enough to help those above us without doing more harm than good." Roran said as Askanir stopped right beside Diamanda. "What is happening?"

One of the archers began to edge way and Orrin glared at him. "Back! By Angvard's crown, I'll have the heads of those who do not stay where they are!" the king roared. His sky-colored eyes flicked to the lone man that his soldiers were surrounding.

The man they were regarding was of medium height and build, a most curious violet birthmark on his neck and mud-brown hair. His shield was a mess, his sword horribly damaged and not really usable anymore. His armor was muddy and bloody, a sword wound on his ribs. His right foot was pinned to the ground, the shaft partially buried into the dirt.

Laughter – haunting, gurgling laughter – rose from his throat, rising and falling like the madman's mix of laughter and tears, amusement and horror.

A chill ran down Vanir's back. _This is most unnatural,_ Diamanda growled.

"What are you?" Orrin demanded angrily. The soldier did not respond, merely continuing his horrifying laughter. "By the lost kings, answer me! Do you want my spellcasters to be unleashed upon you? I have ten Riders at my disposal! Are you a beast in man's skin? Demon? In what foul pit of the dead did the mad king find you and your brothers in? Did the Ra'zac spawn you?"

Vanir noted that Roran stiffened at the mention of the Ra'zac, and remembered that he was among those who battled the Ra'zac the previous year.

With a loud rush of air, the other Riders joined them as the rest of the Forsworn – as battered as their foes – fled, hot dragon blood raining upon the earth. Serylda nodded to them wearily. "What is this?" she asked, sunken eyes still alert.

"I am a man," the warrior said, and the laughter resumed at a lower intensity.

"You are like no man I know," Orrin continued, voice as cold as ice.

"I wanted to give my family a future. Are we so different, Surdan?"

Orrin's eyes narrowed coldly. "I did not ask for riddles, fork-tongued wretch. You will tell me what happened to make you what you are. I can ask my men to pour boiling lead down your throat to see if it would pain you."

The laughter started once more, as if a hidden signal bid it to start. Vanir felt himself shudder. The intensity of the unbalanced sound that burst forth from the man's throat will definitely haunt his dreams for nights to come. "Nothing can hurt me anymore. Not even dragonfire. You can cut me to pieces for all I care. The king gifted us, made us impervious to pain. In exchange, our entire lines will live comfortably forever. You can hide, you can run, but we will find you. We will not stop. Ordinary men will drop to exhaustion, but we will not. We will keep fighting as long as we have arms to swing. We will take no prisoners. You will die."

The soldier's shield hand, mangled horribly, grabbed the arrow and tore it out, flesh clinging to its tip. He tossed the blood-stained missile at one of the archers, wounding the hapless man. His eyes widened madly, lurching forward as the intensity of the gurgling laughter increased, dragging his injured foot behind him and raising his damaged sword.

With a word from Orrin, arrows hurtled toward the man, all but two penetrating his rib cage. His deranged laughter transformed into a wheezing chuckle as blood poured into his lungs. Blood smeared the grass as the archers peppered him with two more volleys of arrows. He fell as one struck his kneecap and others pierced his uppoer legs. A lone arrow went right through his neck.

And he still stood there, crawling and giggling toward them.

Vanir couldn't blame Aesyr when she suddenly threw up. Vanir was barely holding it in himself.

King Orrin let out a hysterical curse as he jumped off his charger and handed his sword and shield to the nearest soldier. He strode to the nearest Urgal. "Give me your ax," he demanded.

As the Urgal complied, he strode over the soldier and chopped off the soldier's head with one weary swing of the heavy weapon. The haunting laughter finally ceased. The soldier's eyes and mouth moved for another few seconds before stopping.

Vanir shuddered.

"They can be killed," Orrin said in wonder. "Behead them. Bash their skulls in. Shoot their eyes. Any of those can be done! Spread the word!"

Vanir found himself facing Nar Garzhvog, who was standing beside some of his Kull. They exchanged brief nods before curiosity overwhelmed the elf. "Were all the soldiers like that?"

"Yes. Men who feel no pain. You hit them hard and think them dead, turn your back and they attack you." Garzhvog frowned, though it made him look tired instead of angry. "I lost many rams today. My people have fought droves of humans before, Nightsword. None of them were laughing ghouls. This is unnatural."

"That, it is."

Garzhvog's expression changed into something akin to fear. "It makes us think that they are possessed by hornless spirits of legend. Could the gods themselves turn against us?"

Elves did not believe in gods, but after everything that happened in his life, Vanir was ready to believe everything. But not about the gods creating those men, of course. Gods probably wouldn't want to create something so blatantly unnatural. "It was Galbatorix. He used magic to turn them into… that. We'll find a way to protect ourselves, I swear to you."

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><p><strong>Sorry, I really couldn't do this chapter any justice. Erk. I rewrote this twice and couldn't really satisfy myself with the results.<strong>

**Anyway, we're back in Tronjheim for next chapter, though we might also cover the aftermath of this attack, maybe with Katrina.**

**And yeah, politics is quite messy in Alagaesia, eh? Plus, an all-out war might not yet be out of the question by the time Galbatorix is nothing but a smear on the castle floors.**

**This chapter is powered by a forsaken child - er, I mean, Fall Out Boy's new album. XD**

**Read and review, as always!**


	16. To be Remembered for Centuries

**Disclaime: Brisingr and all related works are not owned by me.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 16: To be Remembered for Centuries<strong>

After hours of being locked inside his room with his brother – for safety as the investigation is ongoing, according to Olhrun, who joined them for dinner – it was a relief for Murtagh to be led out. They were finally summoned to Orik's chambers, their bodyguards surrounding them and looking more vigilant than ever.

They walked into a long, ornate entryway with three circular upholstered seats. Murtagh wished he had the time to appreciate the embroidered wall hangings that almost glittered with the flameless lanterns' light. A battle – most likely famous and historical – was carved on the marble ceiling.

Orik himself was standing in the middle, talking to a group of heavily-armed warriors and gray-bearded, angry dwarves from their clan. Hrothgar was waving his hands angrily as he regarded a particular warrior. Orik turned toward them as he noticed their approach, face grim. "It is good that you did not delay," he said worriedly.

"What is happening?" Murtagh asked.

Orik sighed. "It is hard to find trustworthy people these days, brothers of mine."

"It is well that you should find people who will not let news escape to other clans," mused Hrothgar. "We cannot afford to start a clan war."

Orik nodded and waved his hand. The warriors moved aside, revealing three bound and bloodied dwarves in a heap, one of them struggling against his bonds. Murtagh narrowed his eyes. "And who are these?"

"Several of our smiths examined the daggers your attackers carried – and noticed that a pair were missing, might I add." Orik's eyes twinkled in amusement despite the worry and rage in his voice. "It is the craftsmanship of one Kiefna Long-nose – a bladesmith of our clan. He is quite renowned among our people."

"Did he tell us who bought the daggers from him?"

Orik laughed. "Oh, hardly. We were able to track the daggers from Kiefna to an armorer in Dalgon. It is many leagues from here, but the armorer sold them to a knurlaf – a woman – with seven fingers on each hand. That was two months ago."

"Please don't tell me that it is not common among your people," muttered Murtagh. He could feel Thorn's simmering rage many leagues above them. The dragons were prowling Farthen Dur, right outside Tronjheim, preventing anyone from leaving.

_I think it is,_ Livia said, sounding a little confused. _Or was it among Urgals? Forgive me, little one, I did not mingle much with two-legs-stout-small-dwarves._

_It is not a problem,_ Murtagh said, still as tense as a drawn bow.

"Unfortunately, this condition is common among our people. There are many seven-fingered dwarf women here. It was difficult tracking down the particular woman in Dalgon. I had warriors there who questioned her most closely," explained Orik. "She is from Durgrimst Nagra, but we have determined so far that she acted of her own accord. Thordris and her clan had nothing to do with it. After all, it would risk her alliance with us."

"So someone else may have employed her," Eragon said thoughtfully. "Surely it would have invovled something of value, or threats. Maybe a combination of both."

Murtagh grinned in spite of himself and looked sideways at his brother. "Considering taking such measures against your enemies?"

"A dwarf did engage her to buy the daggers and deliver them to a wine merchant who would take them with him once he leaves Dalgon," Orik confirmed. "The woman did not tell her what he meant to do with them, but asking around helped again. We learned from the city merchants that he traveled directly from Dalgon to a city chiefly held by Durgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhuin."

Eragon scowled. "That doesn't prove anything, am I right?"

Hrothgar nodded. "Take heart, lad. It just needed more evidence before we can establish who is the guilty party. And Orik is clever."

Orik grinned. "One of our spellcasters retraced the path of the assassins through the tunnels and reached a deserted area on the twelfth level of Tronjheim… ah, I would explain more, but it shall not make any sense to you."

"Well then, we should teach them the arrangements of the rooms in Tronjheim." Hrothgar chuckled.

"Aye. In any event, we followed the trail to an abandoned storeroom. We found the treacherous three there." He motioned toward the bound dwarves angrily. "We broke the minds of two of them after capturing them alive. The third will be examined by the grimstborithn at their pleasure. We took all they knew about this matter."

"So I suppose they did have something to do with the attack," Murtagh began, his mind aware of the possibilities.

Hrothgar nodded. "Grimstborith Orik has determined that they equipped the assassins for the attack. They gave your attackers the daggers and clothing. They also fed and sheltered the traitors last night."

Orik spat on the floor. "Vargrimstn, the lot of them. They are warriors who have disgraced themselves and are now clanless. No one deals with filth like they, unless they are plotting villainy too, and wish to conceal it from others. They took their orders from Grimstborith Vermund of Az Sweldn rak Anhuin."

"So he is guilty," snarled Eragon.

Murtagh shook his head. "It could have been a ruse for all we know. But Orik, is there no doubt?"

"There is no doubt. Our spellcasters have scoured their minds. Az Sweldn rak Anhuin tried to kill you both. We will never know – probably – whether the other clans have been involved, but it is important to expose those who have been proven treacherous if we want to discourage everyone else who might try to attempt, or are allied with them. It might even convince others to give me their vote for king."

Murtagh remembered the prismatic blade that almost killed them and their guards. Blind rage welled up within him, which no doubt came from Thorn, distant their connection right now may be. "I suppose we will be punishing them, then?"

"Do we kill Vermund?" Eragon asked, color draining from his face.

Orik beamed and exchanged looks with Hrothgar. "Leave that to us."

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><p>Dressed in the grandest robes the dwarves have offered them, Eragon sat beside Murtagh, their backs to the wall and hands in an identical position by the pommels of their swords, casual enough not to draw attention. Eragon was observing Vermund most of the time, though the grimstborith stayed as calm as ever.<p>

_To the left and three doors down,_ Murtagh reminded him idly. Orik positioned a hundred of his warriors secretly in that area.

Though anger churned inside him, shared with Saphira, Eragon was not exactly disappointed when Orik warned them against killing Vermund unless he threatened to do the same to them. He was nervous, but schooled himself not to let it show. Instead, he prayed to any god that listened for guidance.

The clan chiefs resumed their places in the center of the room. Gannel of Durgrimst Quan rose to his feet, indicating the begginning of the meeting. Olhrun leaned toward the twins, starting to translate. "Greetings again, mine fellow clan chiefs. I know not if it is well met or not, for I have heard certain rumors – rumors of rumors, in fact – that are disturbing. As they are rumors, of course, there is no proof but words carried in our ancient stone halls. Today is my day to preside over our congregation, and I propose that we delay our most serious debates for the moment. If you are agreeable, please allow me to pose a few questions to the meet."

No one replied for a while, clan chiefs muttering among themselves. Then, Iorunn leaned forward with a sensual smile, hair spilling down her shoulders and around her face. "You will meet no objection from me, Grimstborith Gannel." Her eyes twinkled. "You have aroused my curiosity, and I believe that the other grimstborithn agree with me. Let us hear what you wish to say."

The other chiefs quickly voiced out their agreements, trapping Vermund, who consented last.

Gannel watched the group most impressively, dark eyes like shards of black marble. Hushed silence veiled the room as he narrated what transpired during their midday meal the previous day – of noise throughout the southern tunnels, evidence of a mighty fight in an ancient excavated area, bloodstained floor, charred corpses, and soot revealing the explosion of a flameless lantern. The evidence he presented was regarding what seemed to be a recent battle.

_And three of the assailed are sitting together in this very room,_ Murtagh said, eliciting a smile from Eragon.

Gannel leaned forward, eyes intense. "Do any of you possess knowledge of what has transpired?"

Eragon rolled his eyes. _Why doesn't he ask the purple veils, then?_

_ I'd really rather see them give themselves away, aye,_ Murtagh groaned.

Orik cleared his throat, diverting everyone's attention as he stood up. Gannel inclined his head, willing him to go on. "Gannel, I believe I can satisfy some of your curiosity. You may want to ask your other questions before I proceed, though."

Gannel scowled. He rapped his knuckles against the table. "As you say. What I shall inquire about next is undoubtedly related to the fight in Korgan's tunnels. I haven news of numerous knurlan moving through Tronjheim and gathering into bands of armed men."

"That would be illegal," Iorunn said, perfectly stating the obvious, "unless there is permission from all present chiefs."

"We have not been able to ascertain the clans of these warriors, but it suggests motives of the darkest kind in such an event like this meet."

As Gannel continued his flowered speech about the people marshalling their forces, Eragon shook his had subtly. _If he knew what happened yesterday, he might consider it for his own good,_ he mused.

Once the chief of Durgrimst Quan finished talking, the other dwarf chiefs rose to their feet, hurling accusations, denials, and the like at each other heatedly. An angry Thordris eventually loomed over Galdheim before Orik cleared his throat, slamming his fists on the table. Everyone stopped and stared at him with wild eyes. "I believe I have the answers you seek in this matter too, Gannel," he began calmly. "I cannot speak for the other clans, but some of the warriors hurrying through the halls of our servants have been of Durgrimst Ingeitum. I freely admit to that. In part."

Iorunn leaned forward, eyes narrowing to mere slits. "I suppose you have a good explanation for this, Orik, Thrifk's son. I am aware that Hrothgar sits with your clan. You stain his name and his rule with what you are doing."

"Fair Iorunn, my answer needs to be a lengthy one for you all to understand. So if you, Grimstborith Gannel, have any more questions, you may want to voice them out now before I proceed."

Gannel frowned. "Very well, Grimstborith Orik, I shall put my other questions aside, as they are related to those subjects I have brought forward. But with what you have said, a new question has arisen, and I must ask you specifically. Why have you abandoned yesterday's meet? You must not avaid this question, for you seem deeply involved in yesterday's affairs."

"Traitors and dragons," muttered Vermund.

"Be quiet, " Grimstborith Nado growled. "We shall listen to what he has to say."

"It shall be my pleasure," Orik said, bowing his head briefly. He turned to his clan and smiled before adressing the other chiefs once more. He began with the history of the dwarves, including skirmishes between factions, and against the dragons that they have always regarded with hate, fear, and – as much as some may deny it – awe. His introduction ended with the elves' arrival in Alagaesia and the agreement to create Dragon Riders.

He criticized his race for clinging to their old ways, as stubborn as the stones they came from, rejecting new ideas. He lamented the fact that they sacrificed their future, wondering what could have been if Riders included dwarves, as the importance and influence of their race steadily diminished since Queen Tarmunora included humans in their pact with the dragons.

Pride truly was their race's downfall.

Anger and irritation was etched on most other clan chief's faces as Orik criticized them, once more solidifying his claims of dwarves being too prideful. A number of them were quite receptive, though, and seemed to consider what he was saying.

Orik stared at them briefly before praising the Riders for providing them with the greatest period of prosperity that they have ever experienced. And once more noted the fact that they did not contribute whatsoever in causing it. He began to speak of the fall of the Riders, and the fall of the dwarves that also resulted from it.

He spoke of Galbatorix's rule, which affected all thre races. He then finally reached the arrival of the new Riders and the hope that they brought with them, praising them for their prowess in the battles that soon raged. He also reminded them that Hrothgar adopted the two who never met their parents, giving them a new family and also teaching them in their ways.

"I am proud to be their foster brother," he said. "Everything we have wished for in a Dragon Rider are embodied by my brothers and their friends! They exist, and they are powerful. My brothers embraced our people as no Dragon Rider ever has! They extended their friendship to us, followed our ways. We have poorly repaid them with sneers and slights. Resented our own heroes. Would you like the humans and elves to call us an ungrateful race? Our memories are too long for our own good. Some of us have let their hatred fester into something vile and have resorted to violence. I know not what they think. Maybe they believe that they are still acting for the good of our people, but bah! Why would they try to kill our best hope against Galbatorix and his Forsworn?"

The tension was so thick that nobody moved. Their eyes were all focused on Orik's face. Even rotund Freowin set aside his carving and watched him intently as Orik narrated the events of the previous day, and the amethyst bracelet he found.

"And I suppose you are blaming this attack upon mine clan because of such an evidence? One can buy those trinkets in most every market of our realm," Vermund growled.

"I do own such jewels myself," Hrothgar agreed, mostly to the benefit of the two young Riders sitting behind him.

"It is true that those bracelets can be found in most markets," agreed Orik. He faced Vermund calmly, though the other dwarf all but frothed at the mouth in rage. He recounted the way he tracked the flickering daggers to Dalgon, discovering the chain of people to which they were passed, culminating in the weapons being brought to a city chiefly held by Az Sweldn rak Anhuin.

Cursing angrily, Vermund straightened up, though Orik still towered over him. All compusure was gone from the normally stoic chief. "Preposterous. It is possible that those daggers never reached our city, and even if they did, you are aware that many other knurlan from other clans live within our halls, like they do in your precious Bregan Hold. This means nothing. I suggest you be careful with your words, Grimstborith Orik. You have no grounds to accuse me and mine clan."

"If that is the case, Grimstborith Vermund, I suggest you be careful with your words too," Undin said placidly.

Orik smiled tightly. "Last night, I followed my spellcasters as they retraced the assassins' path to their place of origin – the twelfth level of Tronjheim. We captured three knurlan hiding in the corner of a storeroom and broke the minds of two. We learned that they provisioned the assassins and aided them in this attack. We learned the identity of their master – you, Grimstborith Vermund! I name you Murderer and Oath-breaker. I name you an enemy of Durgrimst Ingeitum! I name you a traitor to your kind, for you and your clan orchestrated the attempt to kill Eragon and Murtagh, who are both members of mine clan and in extension, are knurlan in all but blood!"

_Should we interfere?_ Eragon looked to his brother for guidance, subtly loosening Vorstnar in its sheath.

_No._ Murtagh did keep his hand on Istalri, ready to draw it in case it was needed.

The other chiefs all stood up, trying to dominate the conversation as they shouted and hurled accusations at each other. Orik and Vermund remained perfectly still though, like rival wolves. The chaos around them remained ignored.

"Grimstborith Vermund, can you refute these charges?" Gannel asked.

Vermund glared at him, finally reverting to his stoicism. "I deny them with every bone in my body, as any sane knurla would do! I challenge anyone to prove them to the satisfaction of a reader-of-law!"

"He is setting a trap for himself," noted Olhrun.

Hrothgar nodded. "We did decide upon backing him into a corner and making him drag himself deeper in his own mess."

They summoned the five readers-of-law in the room, a group of gray-bearded dwarves. One of the dwarves who helped follow the trail of the daggers – Rimmar – was first, talking from a scrying mirror that was employed by Orik's spellcasters. He was followed by the three dwarves that were captured by Ingeitum, though unlike Rimmar, they refused to swear oaths of truthfulness in the ancient language to Gannel, instead spitting on the floor and cursing him. The magicians of different clans worked together in invading the prisoners' minds to get the information that the chiefs needed.

Last to testify were the brothers, who told them all they knew. After answering questions, two random magicians were summond to check their minds and verify their truthfulness. Luckily, the pair were apprehensive and did not wander where they should not.

After more confirmation, the readers-of-law – and the clan chiefs – were satisfied with the answers they received, and turned upon Vermund. "Grimstborith Vermund, you have attempted to kill guests and brought shame upon our entire race. Is there anything you can say about this?"

Vermund spat on the floor. "If these Dragon Riders are knurlan in all but blood, then they are no guests of ours. We may treat them as we would any of our enemies from a different clan."

Before Orik could respond in equal rage, he was summoned by Gannel, alongside Nado and Iorunn. They conferred with the five readers-of-law. No one moved or spoke for a moment, until the four chiefs turned upon Vermund again. "The readers-of-law have made an unanimous decision," Iorunn said with a grin. "Eragon and Murtagh are sworn members of Durgrimst Ingeitum, 'tis true, but they are also Dragon Riders and official envoys of the Varden – tasks that are of importance beyond our realm. They are also friends of high influence with Queen Islanzadi and the elves as a whole. That is why they are due the same hospitality as those we are required to extend to other visiting people of significance. They are our guests, and should be treated as such. I do not even know why I must say that, as every knurla who is not cave-mad ought to know it." She flashed a languid smile toward Eragon.

Nado nodded angrily. "Aye, they are guests."

Angrily, Vermund began to rant in rage, screaming that any act against Az Sweldn rak Anhuin – including his imprisonment – was an act of war, and that they would retaliate. He screamed in rage, promsing retribution and trying to turn the conversation to the main purpose of the clansmeet – which was to elect the new king or queen.

Freowin slapped the table with a meaty palm, regarding the enraged chief with an uncannily predatory look. "You dare speak like that, when you have shamed our race? We cannot retain our honor as knurlan and ignore your crimes at the same time."

Hadfala regarded Vermund over her rune-covered notes. "We need all the Riders at our disposal. Would you risk dooming the entire land by killing two of them? Did you not consider the sorrow Saphira and Thorn would rain down upon us if we slew their Riders? They would destroy Farthen Dur with fire and blood."

Vermund remained quiet, and Orik broke into laughter. "You will consider it a war if we move against your clan, correct? Then we shall not move against you, Vermund. We will live yo and your clan alone. I propose to the clanmeet to do as Grimstborith Vermund wishes. He would have been simply banished for his offenses if he acted upon his own. But he acted as a grimstborith, so why not banish Az Sweldn rak Anhuin from our minds and hearts until they choose a more worthy grimstborith and acknowledge their villainy – repent? If we must, then let us wait a thousand years."

"You would nto dare," growled Vermund.

"We do. We will not lay a finger upon you or your kind. You will simply be ignored. We will refuse to trade with your clan. Will you declare war upon us if we do nothing? If the meet agrees, that is exactly what we shall be doing. Would you threaten us at swordpoint to buy honey and amethyst jewelry that we can simply acquire from Freowin's clan?"

The dwarves all voted upon Orik's proposal – even Nado, Galdheim, and Havard who were supposed to be Vermund's allies. Vermund grew paler as more chiefs consented.

"Be gone, Vargrimstn Vermund. Leave Tronjheim and take your clan with you. Do not trouble the clanmeet until they have fulfilled the conditions we have presented. Until then, we shall shun every member of your clan. And even if they absolve themselves of the dishonor you have brought upon them, you, Vermund, will be Vargrimstn until the end of your day. Such is the well of the clanmeet."

Vermund began to rage and rant, but all clan chiefs began to ignore him. As if he didn't exist. Eragon felt his rage bubble when he exchanged looks with Murtagh.

_Vargrimstn. Have you forgotten? They do not exist in the minds and hearts of dwarves,_ the elder twin noted.

Vermund tried to seize the front of Hreidmar's mail, but three of the chief's guards pulled Vermund away, as if merely helping their chief straighten his armor. It was a chilling sight, but considering what could have happened to Eragon and Murtagh – and Olhrun and their guards, which would have caused grief upon their families – it was hard to say that he did not deserve it.

With an angry oath, Vermund stormed out, followed by the members of his clan inside the room. The room relaxed as they departed, and they discussed any additional actions that must be done with Az Sweldn rak Anhuin.

And finally – oh finally – the dwarves have agreed to proceed with the final vote of the next dwarf king in three days.

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><p><strong>Another short-ish chapter, though it's almost 4000 words long! Sorry, it's filler but I was kind of sick lately so I didn't have much time to cobble up something better. :(<strong>

**Sorry about the switching perspectives last chapter, but I confirm that Nas and Solaris fought the Forsworn too. :3**

**I forgot to mention this the previous chapter, but yes, Kvistor died in Brisingr. Not here, though. Murtagh's "spider senses" made him react faster, thus saving everyone's lives. He's awesome that way.  
><strong>

**I want to show either Roran and Katrina or Aesyr and Vanir next chapter. What do you guys think?**

**I sort of imagine either Saphira or Thorn squishing Vermund like a bug when he steps out of Tronjheim, but I guess he and his contingent will use one of the other underground tunnels to travel. Awwwww.**

**And the final part of the dwarven elections shall probably take place next chapter too!**

**Read and review, as always.**


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